


Shedding Lionskin

by BeaconHill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Harry Potter, Disguised Harry Potter, Female Harry Potter, Gen, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Rivalry, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Manipulative Harry Potter, Mentor Nymphadora Tonks, Mentor Severus Snape, Severus Snape Adopts Harry Potter, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherin Politics, Trans Female Character, Trans Female Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24938152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaconHill/pseuds/BeaconHill
Summary: Harry Potter has honestly enjoyed his four years as a Gryffindor. He loves the friends, the camaraderie, the cozy feeling of Gryffindor Tower – oh, and getting to be the Boy-who-Lived, wizarding superstar, isn't bad either. The House of Lions helped him to become the friendly, warm, fun-loving kid he is today – and hide the Terror of Little Whinging Primary, the cold, angry boy who hurt Muggles with magic, so perfectly that his friends and teachers don't even know he's still there. But the tournament last year had been way too dangerous, and after watching Lord Voldemort murder Cedric Diggory, he's absolutely petrified. He wants out. He wants to stop being Harry Potter.When Dumbledore realizes that the wards around Four Privet Drive have fallen, putting Harry in grave danger, he gets his chance: Dumbledore offers to have him hidden behind a new name and new face, placed with the family of an Order member so he can return to Hogwarts incognito. Harry accepts, but he can't truly expect the persona that unfolds: the Terror reborn as the cunning, Dark, and ever so Slytherin girl, Miss Iolanthe Snape. And she can't even imagine wanting to stay this way.
Comments: 124
Kudos: 590





	1. Escaping Harry Potter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also found on [SpaceBattles](https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/shedding-lionskin-harry-potter-au.862342/) and [Sufficient Velocity](https://forums.sufficientvelocity.com/threads/shedding-lionskin-harry-potter-au.68926/).

"What's wrong, Professor?" My skin is still tingling from the hyperactive privacy wards over the parlor door as I sit down in a rather stiff leather chair. This has to be serious.  
  
Professor Dumbledore sits opposite to me. His bright robes clash marvelously with the dour furniture and tapestries of 12 Grimmauld Place, but he's completely relaxed in his squashy lounge chair, almost as if he doesn't notice. Much to my surprise, Nymphadora Tonks sits beside him, feet slung casually onto an ottoman. Aside from them, the room is empty.  
  
"Oh, Harry," he says, sadness misting his big blue glittering eyes, and I can't help but look away. "I am so sorry."  
  
"What are you sorry about, sir?" That tone is starting to worry me.  
  
"I went to Four Privet Drive," he says gravely.  
  
My eyes widen, my jaw clenching, but my eyes lock firmly to the coffee table. This could be _really_ bad.  
  
One nice thing about the Dursleys and their fear of all things wizarding was that I'd never had any wizard visitors actually talk to them – well, Hagrid had, and the Weasleys, but none of them were exactly perceptive, or much inclined to listen to shouting Muggles. But Dumbledore – maybe he wouldn't believe them about me, since he never believed me about them, but if he went to Little Whinging Primary and got the truth out of my teachers—  
  
With tremendous effort, I wipe the fear from my mind. I can't even _think_ about that too loudly, or he'll catch me.  
  
Instead, I fill my head with all the thoughts Harry Potter is supposed to have – shame at the way I'd been treated, horror at the idea of someone finding out about it, and the lingering fear that _maybe I deserved it_ clawing up my spine. Only then do I meet Dumbledore's searching gaze with my own tentative, fleeting one.  
  
"Why?" I ask. "You've never visited before."  
  
"I needed to find out how the Dementors could have attacked you through the protections around your home, protections I put so much faith in."  
  
"Why were you worried about wards on the house, sir? We were a few blocks down the street, not at home. We wouldn't be under them, right?"  
  
"If they were normal wards, perhaps that would be acceptable, but these were meant to be among the most powerful known to wizardkind, wrought by willing sacrifice and fueled by love, that can protect you and your family wherever they go. I could entrust your safety to nothing less. Yet you and your cousin were attacked by Dementors not half a mile from your front door. That should have been impossible. And so I had no choice but to figure out the flaw in the wards." He shakes his head. "But there was no flaw. The wards simply weren't functioning any longer. They were in _tatters_ , once-powerful magic shredded and weeping. And, Harry, this is the reason I have to apologize."  
  
He bows his head, closing his eyes for a moment.  
  
"The wards were meant to be sustained by the love of your family. Instead, they were destroyed by their hatred. And all of this is my fault, for I placed you in that home, over the objections of colleagues I should have listened to, and I kept you there even when you asked to leave. I knew for a long time that you perhaps didn't find them the warmest of parents. That you envied the children of wizarding families. But I never realized it could be this bad."  
  
My heart soars. He doesn't know. He didn't find out. "Why didn't you, sir?" I whisper. "I told you what they were like. Every year, I told you."  
  
"They are the only family you have. I thought, even if they were grudging, even if they were hesitant, that some part of them must love you. I have always been too willing to see the best in people." He opens his mouth, but for a moment no words come out, his face screwing up like he'd bitten into a bad Every-Flavor Bean. "I was wrong," he eventually manages. "There was no love in that home."  
  
"So I don't have to go back?" I say, smiling hopefully as a crescendo builds in my chest.  
  
"Even if you wanted to, you could not. Between this and Voldemort's theft of your blood, I fear that the protections I have long relied upon are no longer present, and there is little I can do to replace what was lost. It is absolutely impossible for you to live among Muggles now." He shakes his head. "But I am uncertain where you can go instead. And after my last poor decision, I feel I must let you make this choice for yourself."  
  
"Thank you, sir," I say with a smile. He must really be feeling bad about this – he's never given me a choice before.  
  
"You could try to stay as you are, live here in Grimmauld Place and go to Hogwarts as if nothing has happened. Alas, danger has managed to find you there every year, despite my best efforts. This year, I worry the Minister's alarming ostrich impression will pose the greatest difficulty. He is trying to evict me from the castle as a means of removing me from public life, and if I must flee, I fear you will have to flee with me. But if you truly insist that your life stay as it is, we can follow this most dangerous path."  
  
"Doesn't sound like a good idea," I mumble.  
  
"Perhaps it could work," Dumbledore says. "And if not, I hope that life in hiding can be made to suit you. Indeed, my second and preferred option is for you to go into hiding now. I have a cottage in the mountains, built to shield me from Gellert Grindelwald, that I feel will be quite impregnable to the Ministry and Voldemort alike." His eyes sparkle with pride. "It is a truly beautiful place, deep in the forest, with a lake and a view of all the surrounding countryside."  
  
It does sound like a nice place, and at least there'd be no Dursleys, but... "Wouldn't that be boring?" I ask. "I need to keep up my education..."  
  
"Many of the Order would gladly provide lessons by owl, and I could give you training in the skills you will need to defeat the Dark Lord." He sighs. "But I myself was unwilling to cower from evil, and so I cannot force it on you."  
  
I nod. "Thank you, sir."  
  
"These were the options I came up with," Professor Dumbledore says. "But Miss Tonks came to me with a third option that I will let her explain."  
  
Tonks grins. "I want you to do what any Auror would suggest in a situation like this: witness protection. Give you a new name and a new face, so the Death Eaters can't find you."  
  
I gasp, quietly. My mouth falls open. I get to stop being Harry Potter? Stop having to play the Gryffindor? Stop needing to live up to the dumb choices I made all the way back in first year? Stop being the boy insulted daily in the Prophet, sure to be hated by his classmates? Stop being the boy hunted by Voldemort, escaping death every single school year? Yes! Fuck yes, I've wanted out for a year now, and getting to leave with Dumbledore's blessing – with his _help_ – is beyond my wildest dreams!  
  
Tonks notices my expression, her grin turning into more of a smirk. "Glad to see you're interested," she says. "But this isn't going to be easy. We'd rather not send you out of the country – the Order is here, so the further away you are, the harder it is to protect you and train you. But wizarding Britain isn't a big place. There are only a few hundred children around your age, and camouflaging you among them will be difficult."  
  
I blink. She's right. That does sound like a problem.  
  
"We could send you to one of the less prestigious magical schools, but the Order has no presence at any of them, and we'd have a hard time protecting you or getting access to you. And sending you to Hogwarts would require an elaborate false persona – it'd be more like an undercover mission than witness protection."  
  
Pretending to be someone else _at Hogwarts_? Around so many people who know me? I know I'm good at lying, but that might be too much even for me.  
  
"Lucky for you, I'm the one who trains undercover Aurors." She smirks again, even wider than the last time. "Putting on a new face isn't easy. Even some Aurors wash out. You'll have to work hard, and there's no guarantee you'll pass. But if the idea interests you, if you'd rather a double life to a life in hiding or on the firing line, then I will gladly train you."  
  
"What will it be like?" I say, starstruck.  
  
"You'll come stay with me. I'll take almost a month off of work to give you a crash course in how to be someone you're not. At the end, I tell Dumbledore how you did, and which of our ideas I think you can pull off. Assuming you still want to go through with it, you pick a new face, and I spend a few more days preparing you before sending you off into the world.  
  
Merlin, this sounds amazing. I couldn't ask for better. "So I'd have to leave my friends, then?" Honestly, I'm not sure if that's a bad thing or a good thing. I do care about my friends. Even in the deepest, darkest parts of me, I care. Those friendships were never an act. But the way they shut me out over the summer, stopped sending me letters worth reading – it _angers_ me, sends hot fire up my spine that I don't dare to let show. A Dumbledore-furnished excuse to ditch them for a while, give them a taste of their own medicine while my feelings cool back off, might be just what I need.  
  
"That's the idea. Your friends won't be coming with you, or your broom, and you'll only be allowed letters once a week. We'll be taking you away from your normal life, finding out how you handle it before you get stuck with it."  
  
I tilt my head quizzically.  
  
"See, if you go back to Hogwarts, get sorted Gryffindor, hang out with your friends and play Seeker, they'll find you, even if you have red hair now and your name's Billy Weasley. It'd be worse than useless. So you won't be doing that. You'll have to separate from your friends, communicating with them through weekly letters and visits to Headquarters on the holidays. If you go back to Hogwarts, you'll be a meek little Hufflepuff mouse who can hardly cast a spell without dropping your wand and squeaking, beneath everyone's notice. Better yet, you'll be a Slytherin, and every single one of your friends will hate you. So if you can't handle that, we need to find that out _now_."  
  
I nod. That makes sense. Harsh, but it makes sense.  
  
Dumbledore cuts in, and I flinch in my seat – I'd been so engrossed in Tonks's speech that I'd actually forgotten he was here. "I know how close you are with your friends, that you so rarely hide anything from them." It takes an effort to keep my face straight. I never hide anything, huh? "But this must be secret if it is to work – even hinting to them that you might be attending Hogwarts under a different name may ruin everything. There are rarely more than three or four transfer students in a year, and I doubt your friends could restrain themselves from guessing. Do you truly believe that you can hide this from them?"  
  
"Yes, sir," I say. "They won't find out from me."  
  
He looks at me skeptically, but doesn't say anything more.  
  
"Secrecy isn't the only reason they won't be coming," Tonks says. "I aim to keep you _busy_. You won't have time for friends or broomsticks. I'm not kidding about this being a crash course – you're doing in three weeks what Aurors do in two months. We're working on a tight timeframe here – it's mid-July, so you've only got a month and a half before you'll be headed back to school with a new face and new name, and we want to have you settled in your new life for half that time."  
  
"Sounds intense. What was your training like, Tonks?" I ask, curious.  
  
"So I take it you don't know much about Metamorphmagi?"  
  
I nod, and her smile turns just a little bit menacing.  
  
"Let me explain: we're not human. We're natural impersonators – not just with our abilities, but in our minds. We find lying easy, our masks obligatory. So if you want to see my real face, forget it. I don't have one. The best I can do is a face you'll be comfortable with. And, believe me, there is no training in the world that can equal what I was born with."  
  
She leans back in her chair, and something about the motion just doesn't look right – her back, I think, arching too far, too steeply. I blink, worried and a little bit shocked. I've seen her abilities before, of course, but she's so _good_ at being disarmingly normal, I had no idea she wasn't human! And I've never read any books about Metamorphmagi, an error that I intend to correct the moment I'm out of here.  
  
"So, Harry," Dumbledore says, only the way his eyes flicker toward Tonks hinting at his thoughts. "Does this option still interest you?"  
  
It takes effort to look like I'm thinking about it. To not instantly blurt out _of course!_ It's no surprise Dumbledore is skeptical. Harry Potter, if he were real, would barely even _consider_ this. But he's not, even if he shares my name. And I am _itching_ to stop being him, at least for now.  
  
So I take a deep breath. Hide my excitement, clear my mind. Force myself to become Harry Potter the consummate Gryffindor once more. And only then do I speak.  
  
"Yes, sir," I say. "I'd like to try it." I turn to Tonks and smile. "Thank you for giving me the chance. I won't let you down."  
  
"Excellent," says Tonks, her grin wide and toothy as she flashes two thumbs up. "We are going to have _so_ much fun together."  
  
"Very well," says Dumbledore. "But remember, there are other options. If you have difficulty with your studies, there's no shame in changing your mind."  
  
My expression flickers for just a moment. I know I shouldn't take this personally. I know this just means I've done well in playing the hothead Gryffindor. But it still stings that Dumbledore thinks so little of me that he believes I'd give up a chance like this. "Is there something I should tell my friends?"  
  
"Tell them you're going into hiding because the wards over your home have failed," Dumbledore says. "You can repeat what I told you about that option. Perhaps say that you might yet return, should captivity bore you unduly."  
  
That works. "When should I be packed?" I ask. "What should I bring?"  
  
"Pack everything, but give it to Dumbledore for safekeeping, not me," Tonks says. "You won't be taking it with you." She smirks. "I'm not planning to leave you in your own body long enough for you to need your own clothes."  
  
"I'll send it on to the cottage where you'll ostensibly be spending your time," Dumbledore adds mildly. "You might yet travel there in the future."  
  
"What about my invisibility cloak?" I ask. "It's gotten me out of a lot of scrapes before – it might be just what I need if I'm gonna be in disguise."  
  
There's a sparkle in Tonks's eyes at the idea, but Dumbledore shakes his head. "I think not," he says. "That cloak is a unique family heirloom, potentially identifiable by friends and enemies alike. But if you've grown used to the ability to remain unseen, Miss Tonks can train you in the Disillusionment Charm."  
  
She nods. "I'll add it to the list."  
  
"And Hedwig?" I ask.  
  
"She can stay at Grimmauld Place with Sirius and your friends," Dumbledore says. "I fear she too may be identifiable, but perhaps you can send her Owl Treats."  
  
"So I guess my only other question is... when do I leave?"  
  
"As soon as we can," Tonks says. "Now work for you?"  
  
"Perhaps Harry might take an hour or two to say goodbye to his friends," Dumbledore interjects.  
  
Tonks looks a bit disgruntled, but doesn't say anything. "Fine," she says. "Meet me here when you're ready. But don't waste time – we'll need every second we have."  
  
"I won't, I promise."  
  
~~  
  
I stumble coming out of the Apparition, my feet tangling in the rug, a lurid purple shag carpet. Once I get my footing, my eyes widen, and I look all around the room.  
  
The decor is eclectic, to say the least. Dour dark-wood wizarding furniture coexists with bright Muggle plastics and a potted plant with enormous yellow flowers. There's a telly in the corner, a big old Wizarding Wireless set just to its left side. There's a bookcase where bright, cheery Muggle titles clash with leatherbound spellbooks. There's a galley kitchen running along the side of the room, and it looks Muggle, but it's painted in pink and purple and stocked with funky-looking vintage appliances. In the back, there are two doors that I assume go to the bedrooms. There seems to be a bit of a 60s theme, overall, or there would be if it weren't for all the bits that wouldn't look strange in Grimmauld Place.  
  
"Welcome to my lair," Tonks says, grinning at me. She waves her wand and produces a fizzling yellow ball that sails into the air, through an open door, and bounces around inside with a crash. "That'll be your room," Tonks says. "Mine's the other one, don't go in there. Your bedroom has its own bathroom, and it also has a door to the Closet."  
  
"The Closet?" I ask.  
  
"C'mon, I'll show you!" She darts off into my bedroom, as I follow gingerly behind. It isn't quite as odd as the rest of the apartment, probably because it's rarely occupied. And even here, the Wizarding furniture is accented by groovy Muggle-print bedsheets, and the clock – now lying on the floor, Tonks puts it back where it belongs – is bright yellow plastic. She points to a door on the left-hand wall. "That one's the bathroom," she says, and then she gestures to the right-hand wall. " _That_ one's the Closet," she says, walking inside.  
  
I follow her through, and my mouth drops open.  
  
It's a big room, almost as big as the bedroom, lined with shelving all around the walls and in a big pod in the center, absolutely full of clothes. Shirts, dresses, and robes, pants and skirts, shoes, underwear – my eyes widen, and I look away – and even more that I don't recognize. An assortment of hats sits atop the shelves, some sensible, most bizarre.  
  
"What did you expect?" she says with a grin. "Wouldn't be much good as a Metamorph if I didn't have a giant collection of clothes, did I?"  
  
She runs her hand along the racks as she paces around the room.  
  
"So we got boys' clothes over here, girls over here, shirts on the top, robes and dresses in the tall ones, skirts and pants along the bottom, everything else up top. They're sorted by size all the way from little kids to basketball players. These are all magically compressed, so if you're having a hard time getting something out..."  
  
She taps on one of the compartments, and it pushes out of the wall, then expands with a _fwump_ to three times the size. She takes out a cute dress, grins, and suddenly she's wearing that, the scruffy street clothes she had on now neatly folded in her hands.  
  
"There's... sort of a system, but it's all in my head and I feel like it'd take longer for me to explain it than for you to just figure it out," she says, putting her street clothes in a hamper. "And you're gonna learn how to use all of it by the time your training is up."  
  
"Don't you mean half of it?" I ask. "You know, the boys'?"  
  
"Nope!" says Tonks cheerily. "I mean all of it! Well... maybe."  
  
She starts to circle the racks again, picking clothes off as she goes.  
  
"So most human beings get really uncomfortable if they're not the right sex? Which I don't really understand. Like, I don't judge, but I'm a Metamorph, so to me it's just organs and body shape, and I'm pretty much happy with anything – it's not much different than, say, changing my nose."  
  
Her nose bulges out, turning long and droopy, before retracting into two slits, Voldemort-style. I try to stifle my snort, suddenly very conscious of my own nose.  
  
"It's not like I'm a woman who just changes her body sometimes, either – I'm whoever I want to be, you know?" She shrugs. "Stupid human things, I guess. But not everyone's like that – some humans are more like me, and if you happen to be one, we can hide you a lot better." She changes in that moment, first her clothes and then her body, turning into a tall, slim man with big blue eyes and spiky blonde hair, a sparkly silver jacket with two silver necklaces over a ripped T-shirt revealing a heavily muscled body, tight trousers and flashy red shoes. "Most people, when they're looking for a man, don't even _think_ about women. Stupid human blind spot. Very convenient."  
  
He steps closer to me and wraps an arm around my shoulders, and I try not to react, though I can feel my cheeks heating up. "Huh. That... sounds kinda nifty, actually."  
  
"That's the spirit!" he says, squeezing me a little tighter. "However! If I ask you to do something, you give it a proper try, and it's still really uncomfortable? Just tell me. We'll stop. Doesn't matter what it is – being female, obviously, but also being young, being old, being fat, being Pureblood, being male, going into the Muggle world – anything! Really. You just have to say it. Any time, any place."  
  
"Wouldn't that defeat the point?" I ask as he steps away. "If we stop every time I feel weird about something?"  
  
"The _point_ is to come up with a persona you'll be comfortable wearing for, potentially, _years_. So while I do want you to try everything and not just say no beforehand, torturing you with stuff you know you can't stand just wastes our time. And if you grit your teeth and suffer through something without telling me, I might put it in the final disguise unawares, which will make you much more likely to get found out. I'll ask you after each exercise what went well and what didn't, obviously, but you don't have to wait for that. Talk to me. Got it?"  
  
"Got it," I say with a nod and a smile. "I'm honestly a little curious where my boundaries are."  
  
Tonks raised an eyebrow. "That so? I guess you're in luck, because the first outing I have planned is exactly that." He makes another circuit of the shelves, picking up even more clothes – girl's clothes, this time. "You won't have to _do_ anything too challenging – just take a nice walk around London, maybe say a few words every now and then. We'll get dinner, maybe dessert, before heading back home."  
  
I tilt my head. "That doesn't sound so bad."  
  
He grins. "You'll be doing it as my girlfriend."  
  
"Oh." I look down to the floor, fidgeting, My cheeks are burning hot now. "I, uh... I guess that makes it harder."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my amazing beta reader @GlassGirlCeci, who receives the Closet. Have fun dressing up!
> 
> So I've seen a few stories where Harry needs to go incognito for various war reasons. The premise intrigues me, but I've never seen it especially well implemented – they tend to just throw Harry in headfirst, and I never truly buy that he'd be able to blend in as his new identity. This is my attempt to get the idea right, with a version of Harry who's more secretive and cunning than canon, given all the skills and training he needs to excel.
> 
> This idea really bit me hard – I've got 27,000 words of it already, so expect it to keep going for a while. I've been trying to get more productive at writing, so I can only consider this an enormous success.
> 
> I'm planning to update this fic every Friday until I run out of chapters. I'll see how long I can keep it up!


	2. New Faces

"Doesn't it sound fun? Everyone says I’m a great date." Tonks laughs, a deep, playful sound very different from his normal body's. "I promise I'll take good care of you."  
  
"Going out as your _girl_ friend..." I'm still a little staggered. Tonks came up with one hell of a training exercise. But I'm here to learn how to impersonate people, and this certainly qualifies. Besides, I'm definitely a little curious what it's like... "I... yeah! I guess it does sound fun!"  
  
"Good!" Tonks says with a grin. "The point this time is just to see if you can function normally in public with a sex, body, clothes, and social role that are new to you. Like I said, let me know what feels uncomfortable, whenever you feel uncomfortable. We can change stuff on the fly, if you need." He conjures a chair with a swoop of his wand. "Now sit down, time to get your new body."  
  
"Er... how am I transforming, actually?" I ask. "I'm not a Metamorph. Am I going to be on Polyjuice the whole time?"  
  
Tonks makes a face. "Eugh, no. That stuff is vile. I'll change you for the exercises. We Metamorphs have a knack for all human Transfiguration. Transforming other people isn't automatic like transforming ourselves, but it's still very intuitive, and I've been studying since Hogwarts. I can turn you into anything I can turn me into. It just takes a little longer than doing it my usual way. Might feel a bit weird. Now give me your arm so I can start."  
  
I swallow, fidget. Then I raise my arm, Tonks presses his wand to my bare elbow, and I can _feel_ my body start to change.  
  
"This is called semi-permanent human Transfiguration: it won't wear off on its own, and it can't be dispelled with a _Finite_ , but your real human body is still there underneath whatever shape I put you into, and anyone who knows human Transfiguration can bring it back again. So if things go really south, head for St. Mungos, and they'll put you back in your normal body."  
  
It's definitely unpleasant – bones changing length, my insides squishing around, and somehow I feel like most guys would be a bit more distressed to feel their dicks retracting.  
  
"If you're curious about how it works, or what other options there are, there's a book in the shelf called _Illusion, Transfiguration, and Transformation: Reshaping the Human Form_. But finish your assigned reading first, OK?"  
  
"Assigned read-glurk-reading?" I ask, my vocal cords shrinking two sizes mid-sentence.  
  
"I'll show you when we get back." There's a strange fizzing feeling that passes over my hair, my skin – everything – and then it ends, and there's nothing. "All done! Take a look – don't you think you're pretty?"  
  
I slowly stand up, a bit uneasy on legs shorter than I'm used to, as I walk over to the mirror. When I get there, I can't help but stare a little.  
  
Yes, I am definitely pretty – I kinda remind myself of Cho Chang, actually. I'm older, about Tonks's age. I have long, straight black hair, big, piercing hazel eyes, and perfect, sparkling teeth. My robes are hanging off me, so I don't have much of a view of my body, but I get the impression that I would look good in nicer clothes.  
  
Right then, Tonks shoves a whole bundle of clothes into my hands. "Here you go!" he says cheerily, before ushering me off to the door to my bedroom. "There's mirrors in the bathroom if you need help seeing what you're doing. Come out when you have all that put on! If you're confused by something, you can ask through the door. Or just let me in! It's not like it's your real body anyway, y'know?"  
  
The door slams shut behind me, and it takes a few moments just to get my balance again. What did he even give me? I lay it out on the bed.  
  
It's a black dress, Muggle-style, with a bra, knickers, and tights. I sigh. I barely even know what to _do_ with these. How did I get myself into this? I remember at the Yule Ball, I was kinda disappointed that boys' dress robes were so boring. The girls looked to be having a lot more fun. Guess I get my wish now.  
  
The only true moment of weirdness is after I dump my oversized Harry Potter duds on the floor, and I have to see in full a body that definitely wasn't there ten minutes ago. But it's not really bad – just unfamiliar. And after a few moments to get used to it, I smile and start to get dressed.  
  
It takes me a little while, since I've never worn any of this stuff before, but I do eventually figure everything out – the mirrored walls in here are a lifesaver. Once everything is on, I pose in front of the mirrors and just stare for a little while.  
  
I look beautiful. I'm dressed up like the sorts of girls I see on TV or in the movies, and, you know... I _like_ that. It feels good. _Really_ good. It's strange, because I don't know why it wouldn't, and yet I'm somehow certain that if Ron were in this situation, he'd be horrified. I suppose he always has been kinda boring...  
  
I shake my head. No sense fretting about it, I decide as I head back to the closet door.  
  
"Tonks," I say, before swallowing, clearing my throat. My new voice takes some getting used to, apparently. "I think you're getting the better end of this deal." Then I grab the doorknob – I have a strange, nervous feeling, but I push through it – and swing the closet door open.  
  
"You look wonderful!" he says, sounding excited, happy, and a little surprised. I'm not sure I understand why – he picked my body, and the clothes, so he should know what to expect, right? He spins me around, checking me over. "Oooh, and it's all on properly, well done! Guess I'll have to baffle you with clothing some other time."  
  
"Thanks," I say. Some part of me wants to flinch, cringe away, but I don't want to give Tonks the satisfaction of watching me fail at his first challenge. So I marshal all my bullshitting talent – from Privet Drive, from Little Whinging Primary, from playing the perfect Gryffindor at school – just to keep me acting as _normally_ as possible. "You ready to go out, then? Oh, except you forgot to give me shoes, and I'm not sure where to put my wand."  
  
"I couldn't keep a girl like you waiting, love," he says, his accent suddenly Cockney as he swaggers up – even his _movement_ is different, it's like he really is a different person – to kiss me on the forehead. I manage not to react, beyond a blush and a demure head-turn – that's about right for a girl getting kissed on a date, I think? – and he smiles. Then he takes a pair of black flats down from the shelves, along with a black purse, and hands them to me. "Here. And your wand can go in your purse, since you don't have pockets and you don't have sleeves to hide a holster under."  
  
I put them on, and we stand up, get ready to go. "Is there anything I should do to get used to my legs faster?" I ask as we walk through Tonks's apartment. I'm trying to turn my own accent in more of a Midlands direction, but I'm not really sure what I'm doing, and I don't think I'm even ready to _try_ changing my body language the way he can. "It still feels a little strange..."  
  
"Nope, there's no trick to it. Just gotta get used to it. But you're not doing too bad." We reach the apartment's front door, but before opening it, Tonks turns to me. "I have one spell to show you before we go," he says. Then he draws his wand, aims it at me, and says " _Tactora!_ "  
  
Then he reaches out and takes my hand.  
  
 _Hearing me OK?_ asks Tonks, except that his lips aren't moving, and I flinch back. He laughs out loud as he keeps his grip on my wrist. _That's what the spell is for. You can hear my thoughts while we're touching. I'll hear your thoughts, too – not everything, but when you're thinking loudly._  
  
 _Like this?_ I think back at him, trying to replicate the feeling – like I'm saying something, except without actually saying it.  
  
 _Exactly!_ Tonks replies. His voice over the spell is interesting – it's definitely not his new voice, but it's not quite Tonks's normal voice either, soft-spoken and hard to place. _So this is how we'll talk during the exercise without breaking character. Just grab my hand any time!_  
  
 _Will do,_ I think back. _But, uh, before we go... What's my name?_  
  
He considers it for a moment. _Tara,_ he decides. _You pick the last name._  
  
 _Ridley, then,_ I decide. That was the last name of a librarian I got along well with. _Tara Ridley. And your name?_  
  
 _Jim Faden_ , he replies. _It's my usual for this look._  
  
Then he opens the door, and we step out into his apartment complex, hand in hand. It's obvious these are Muggle apartments – the stairwell is cramped and dark, lit with dim fluorescent bulbs. After a few flights of stairs, we emerge onto a London street, the air pleasantly warm, though the sky is beginning to glow sunset orange.  
  
"So what do you wanna do tonight, love?" he asks, rubbing his fingers across my bare shoulder. It's surprisingly pleasant.  
  
"I don't really know much about London. Can you take me somewhere nice?"  
  
"For you? Anywhere." I giggle. Oh, Jim. "I was thinking maybe Regent's Park – it has amazing gardens, you'd love it. Almost as pretty as you."  
  
"Sounds nice," I say, leaning into his touch as he leads me down a street toward the Post Office tower, looming in the distance. It's almost a relief to see it's still there – Ron and I nearly knocked it over with that flying car back in second year. _Where are we, actually?_ I ask over our link. _I forgot to ask back at Grimmauld._  
  
 _We're about ten minutes' walk from Diagon Alley,_ he says. _I'll show you sometime, when you're appropriately disguised. We're twenty minutes from St. Mungos – I'll show you that too – and thirty minutes from Grimmauld Place. I actually walk to Grimmauld sometimes, but you won't be going back there for a while._  
  
I nod.  
  
 _On the Muggle side, we're not far from Oxford Circus, and there's a half dozen tube stations in easy walking distance. And there's lots of good restaurants around here, too. We'll probably get takeout most nights we're not doing exercises._  
  
 _Sounds good!_ I think back at him.  
  
We walk for a while, watching the Muggles go by as Jim leads me up crowded streets. But as we go, I begin to worry. We really didn't prepare for very long for this exercise, did we? What happens if I have to talk to people? I could lie on the spot, try to come up with something, but that might be tricky, especially since there are two of us and we have to coordinate our stories.  
  
I almost feel like I'm seven again, back when I first learned how to lie. When I started, I just lied to my teachers the normal way – I knew exactly what happened to Piers Polkiss, I was just pretending I didn't. But that was never quite good enough, especially in those days when my teachers were suspicious of me – when I had to focus on the lie, had to _figure out_ how I would react if the lie were true, I'd get it wrong. I'd be too slow, or I'd screw up, or something, and then the whole charade would come crashing down.  
  
So instead of acting like I hadn't done anything to Piers Polkiss, I learned to _be_ someone who hadn't done anything to Piers Polkiss, pushing away all my contradictory thoughts and feelings to somewhere even I couldn't find them, so I didn't _have_ to focus on the lie – I could just act normally. I do the same thing when I need to seem especially Gryffindor – I hide away all the parts of me that don't fit. But it's much harder with Tara Ridley.  
  
I've only ever been versions of myself before, but she really isn't much like me. I don't know how to be her the way I know how to be my innocent self or my Gryffindor self. But it's not like I'm totally clueless – I did take a date to the Yule Ball, and though I didn't really get much out of it, I took to spending hours with Hermione chatting about her relationship with Krum. I've snooped on couples in the Great Hall and the Three Broomsticks – people-watching is one of my favorite hobbies. And I've seen soap operas, watched TV shows, read romance novels – all that stuff. So while I might be a bit stereotypical, I figure I can at least make a passable attempt at coming up with a persona. Still, it's not really gonna work if Tonks's persona doesn't fit with mine...  
  
 _Do you mind if I come up with a bit of a history for us?_ I ask.  
  
 _Go ahead,_ Tonks says. _Just let me know what you come up with._  
  
I spend a few moments considering the situation. What do I need my history to explain? What questions might I be asked? What will I have to say? I'm really not sure what I'm doing, but eventually I settle on something that seems plausible.  
  
 _I'm thinking we're Muggle university students on summer break. You live here, in the city, but I'm from somewhere else. It's my first time staying with you, and I'm a little nervous about it, but I trust you, and I can't wait to see what you have planned._  
  
Tonks nods. _Interesting. What made you pick those details?_  
  
 _I don't—_  
  
"So, what do you think about the neighborhood?" Jim says out loud, jerking me from my silent conversation. I try not to flinch – I really had zoned out for a moment there.  
  
"I like it!" I say. "It's big, and crowded, and alive, and... maybe a little untidy..." I break eye contact. "I think I'll get used to it."  
  
"You will," he says warmly.  
  
 _What was that about?_ I ask over the link.  
  
 _You need to stay in the real world, even when we're chatting on the inside_ , Tonks says.  
 _  
Fine_ , I say. _So, I don't know London very well, but you live here, so we need a story that explains that. This seems like a good way to do that. Also, I've only ever been a student, so I think I can pretend that a lot better than I can pretend having a job or something._ I frown, look down at the dirty sidewalk below. _I'm not really sure about the details, though – I don't know what Muggle university we might be from, or what we'd be studying—  
_  
 _You have good instincts,_ Tonks says. _But don't worry too much about the history right now – what you have is way better than what most people come up with on their first day, and it should be enough for the exercise. I'll teach you how to come up with a solid history some other time._  
  
I feel a warm burst of pride at the thought that I'm doing at least some of this right. _Got it, thanks!_  
  
Jim keeps chatting at me as we walk, and I keep responding, but as we go, I'm thinking about my persona, trying to give it shape, give it depth. Trying to pull it over me, the way I can the Gryffindor. It's not easy – it's unfamiliar, strange, a little uncomfortable, being Tara when I've never been anyone else before.  
  
"That's where my dad works," he says, gesturing up at the big blue glass tower looming at the end of the road. "He takes me to visit sometimes. The view's amazing – you can see half of London from up there!"  
  
"Wow!" I squeeze his hand, smiling. "That sounds amazing. Can you show me?"  
  
"Maybe sometime," he says noncommittally, and I stick out a pouty lip.  
  
"What does he do?" I ask.  
  
"Oh, some computer thing or other," Jim says. "All goes over my head, though. 'S why I'm in theatre."  
  
We both laugh. "You could be in computers if you want," I say. "You're smart."  
  
"If you say so, baby," Jim replies. He winks, and I giggle, and we keep flirting all the way to the park.  
  
My persona slips a few times – sometimes when Tonks talks to me with the touch spell, sometimes when Jim just manages to surprise me. But overall, things go shockingly well. We go to the park, hang out for a while – we spend ten minutes just cuddling on a bench – we meet some new people and have a conversation, walk to a nice restaurant for dinner and meet a few more people. Honestly, I have a great time – Jim is fun, he's definitely hot, and the people we meet are pretty interesting, too. It's strange how little I think about Tonks as we go – Jim's persona is incredibly convincing, so much so that I don't think there's any chance I would realize he was Tonks if I hadn't seen her change. Not that I'm completely forgetting about the exercise – we end up in a subtle little game, where each of us pushes our shared backstory a little further every time we talk. By the end, I can mostly describe our "first date" back at university just from the clues we each dropped.  
  
A surprisingly large part of me is actually sad when we walk back through the door of Tonks's flat, the exercise complete.  
  
The moment the door shuts behind us, he turns and hugs me. "You did so well!" he says, and I almost gasp – Jim's accent, his body language, everything I've spent the whole exercise getting used to, are all totally gone. Tonks is acting like Tonks again, and it's as if a spell has broken. "I haven't had a trainee do this well on the first exercise in years! I mean, _wow_ – Albus spent like half an hour warning me about all the ways the training might not be right for you, and then you start the first damn exercise and then you knock it out of the park. Shows what he knows. And you were having fun the whole time, weren't you?"  
  
"Thank you!" I say, grinning. I knew I was doing OK, but – that well? "Yeah, I had a blast!"  
  
"I knew it," Tonks says, plopping down on his couch. "C'mon, sit down, I'll give you the proper debriefing." I sit down in the lounge chair opposite. "I'll be honest," he says, "this isn't an exercise I expect trainees to pass – because passing isn't the point."  
  
I blink. _Huh?_  
  
"Today, you experienced all of the things that make Aurors most uncomfortable when they first start undercover training – transforming into the opposite sex, wearing unfamiliar clothing, simulating romance, going among Muggles, staying in character for an extended period of time, holding conversations while incognito, and simply being out in public. At the same time, you did all that in an environment where errors are low-stakes – a nice neighborhood in Muggle London, where the worst that can happen is needing to Apparate away. That's no accident. The purpose of this exercise is twofold: for you, it helps you to get over any initial fears or anxieties you might have, and for me, it shows what stresses you, and how you handle that stress. At least – usually, it does."  
  
His smile turns proud, happy.  
  
"Remember how I said I don't expect trainees to pass? Well, you did. You had a few flinches, but you didn't have one real slip – you never broke character in any major way. And even when I turned up the pressure, I never really saw you sweat."  
  
I nod. That was one of the first things I learned about telling lies, actually – keep cool, even if things are going wrong. And, honestly, not a lot went wrong today.  
  
"You also managed to avoid the biggest mistake people make when they try to come up with undercover operations on the fly: not planning ahead. I intentionally skipped the prep work for this one so I could see how you handled an exercise without it, but you did it all on your own – you settled on our names before we even left the apartment, and on the broad strokes of our lives before we talked to anybody, without me prompting you either time."  
  
I raise my eyebrow. "How am I supposed to be Tara Ridley without knowing any of that stuff?"  
  
"Exactly!" Tonks says with a smile. "When a Metamorph turns into someone new, the important questions are almost automatic – _who am I, what's my name, what am I doing, where am I from, how do I move, how do I talk_ , yadda yadda yadda, but for some reason humans think it _ends_ with the transformation and the outfit instead of starting there." She shrugs. "I don't get it."  
  
"Yeah, me either," I say, and Tonks gives me a big smile.  
  
"Given how well you did, we're probably not gonna spend a lot of time on the basics. If there are any basic skills you need brushing up on, I'll figure that out as we go, though feel free to ask me if there's something you're not sure about."  
  
I nod.  
  
"In our future exercises, I'd like you to keep using womens' shapes at least half the time." Tonks smiles, leaning back on his couch. "Being able to handle either gender role effectively is an unusual and valuable skill. It'll make your final disguise a lot more effective, and give you more options if you end up taking other undercover roles in the future. But like I said before, there's no point forcing you into roles you're not comfortable with. Most of the time, it's easy to tell whether trainees are uncomfortable with something. But you managed to keep your cool the whole exercise, so I really just have to ask: how was it? Are you OK with doing it again?"  
  
"I have no problem being a woman," I say with a smile. "I mean, it was weird for the first, like, five seconds of seeing myself in the mirror? But I think that was more surprise than anything. I'm not used to seeing different bodies in the mirror."  
  
"Yeah, everyone has that at first," Tonks says. "You should get used to it during the training."  
  
"Aside from that, I honestly like it. It's nice. Different." I smile down at my dress. "And womens' clothes are definitely more fun." I look back up at him, trying to think. "It did made things a little trickier – I've never been a woman before, so I don't really know what I'm doing. I sorta started with the way I'd normally act, and then thought about how the girls I know respond differently to things. Does that make sense?"  
  
"Yeah, that sounds like a great way to do it!" Tonks says. "It's okay to be uncertain. Everyone is sometimes." He leans back, seeming to think for a few moments. "No one is born knowing how they should act. They learn – from friends, from books, from plays, or just from watching what strangers do."  
  
"That... _is_ pretty much how I figured out how Tara should act," I say. "Friends, books, TV, movies, people-watching... that sort of thing."  
  
"Then you do know what you're doing!" Tonks grins, flashes me a thumbs-up. "People-watching is the best way to learn, though. No one acts exactly the way they do in books or TV – some are pretty awful, actually, though there are some that get pretty close. I'll be assigning you some of the good books."  
  
"All right. What sorts of books?"  
  
"Some will be nonfiction – books about fashion, language, or culture. Some will be narrative nonfiction, books about particular peoples' experiences in the real world. And some will be fiction that I've found depicts a particular culture or social role very well, either Wizarding or Muggle. We'll spend our first few days of training in the Muggle world – it's a lot more important that we don't screw up in the wizarding world. But as preparation for your wizarding debut, I have a few books for you."  
  
He waves his wand, and a few volumes sail out of the bookshelf, stacking themselves into a messy pile in his arms. He holds up the one on top of the stack.  
  
"This is called _Pure Perversion_ , a tell-all written by someone about Mum's age about what Pureblood society was like at the time, in all its crazy, crazy ways. There was a bit of an uproar – the author actually had to flee the country – but, I guarantee you, _every_ Pureblood over the age of thirteen has read this book. It's a little bit outdated – the Dark Lord wasn't as prominent when this was written, and the culture changed a bit after him – but Mum says it was surprisingly accurate when it was new, and it's not that old yet. Plus, this is my copy, so I've written in notes and things about what's outdated or incorrect."  
  
He hands it to me, and I take a look at the cover – a bright pink dust jacket with sparkly gold accents, it certainly nails the trashy look.  
  
"The other two are stories – romances, specifically, two iconic ones written and set in the early 1900s." He holds up a book with a weird, two-color illustrated cover typical of older wizarding fiction. "The first, _Finding Britain_ , is about an heiress to an extinct family returning from America to reclaim her old family name. This is the outsider ideal in Pureblood society, and in many ways, it represents them at their most accepting. It's fairly short, but should give you a good sense of their etiquette and traditions."  
  
I take it with a smile. Doesn't exactly sound groundbreaking, but it should be a fun read.  
  
"The second, _Knockturn Alley Dreams_ , similarly idealizes the Dark Arts community. It's about a young woman, a new Hogwarts graduate, who because of her heritage – a half-Veela mother and a Muggle father – finds herself shut out of ordinary wizarding society and dumped by her respectable boyfriend. Instead, she turns to the Dark, finding fortune and fame not on the sunny high streets of Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, or Godric's Hollow but in the dark, grimy, cramped confines of Knockturn Alley in its heyday, while coming to terms with her heritage and finding true love. Moreso than the other books, this one shows its age – it's set in a time before Dumbledore ushered Muggleborns into wizarding society proper, and before Voldemort chased them out of the Dark Arts community. But, as with the last book, this is still very much how the Dark community beyond Voldemort sees itself: a meritocratic society, where your power and connection to the Dark matters more than your species or heritage. I'm an old hand at infiltrating the Dark community, so my copy of the book has as much of my notes as it does original text, on top of the notes from my undercover predecessor, Lilliane Vaughn. The result is a detailed record of how the Dark community has changed over the years, on top of a text that was culturally significant to start with."  
  
I blink. "That honestly sounds intriguing," I say. "I never thought much about the Dark Arts community beyond Voldemort."  
  
"Then it's gonna be a fascinating read," Tonks says with a smile. "You might also be interested to know that the Penn family, mentioned in both books, is a thinly-veiled stand-in for the Potters. There are a lot of real families in these, actually – most Purebloods love reading about themselves, even if they'd never deign to let an author use their real family names. There's a glossary of the most common stand-in names in the back of _Pure Perversion_."  
  
"That is _fascinating_ ," I say. Do modern Pureblood romances still do that? Hermione never mentioned. I think back to some of the romances she loaned me, trying to remember if I'd seen the name Penn.  
  
"I totally get if it takes you a while to read these," Tonks says. "You won't have a lot of free time during the training, and I'd rather have you read slowly than not sleep."  
  
"I'm used to staying up late, reading books in bed," I confess. "I've done it since I was little, but especially since I ended up in Gryffindor – the House of Lions isn't really big on studying. So I'll probably get through them fairly fast, especially since I read quickly."  
  
"Then there's a lot more where they came from," Tonks says with a grin. Tonks transforms back to her normal body, her boy's clothes now rather baggy on her. "Anyway, I think we're done for the day – feel free to get settled into your bedroom, take a shower, whatever. The Closet has pajamas, too, so I'll get a pair out for you."  
  
I blink as she gets up and walks away. "You're not going to change me back?" I ask.  
  
"Nope!" Tonks says cheerfully. "Gotta get you used to life while transformed. Plus, human Transfiguration is tiring, and I don't wanna bother." She sticks out her tongue.  
  
I roll my eyes, carrying my books into my bedroom, with a seemingly indelible smile on my face. If today was this fun, what will tomorrow be like?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta read by the amazing @GlassGirlCeci, who receives _Knockturn Alley Dreams_. Have fun reading!
> 
> Progress update: I have 20,071 unposted words in my doc, including complete first drafts of chapters 3 and 5, a mostly-completed draft of chapter 4, and other assorted scenes and ideas.


	3. The Happy Defendant

I wave at Asher Yaxley as my host and distant cousin Radnor Selwyn leads me through the enchanted doors and back onto the warm cobbles of Noble Street, wizarding London's aristocratic district. "So long!" I say, still not quite getting my tongue around the English vowels. "I will owl you should I ever travel in London again!"  
  
"I eagerly await, Katerina," he says, leaning on a pillar in the private club's entryway as the doors shut themselves behind us. I stare pleadingly at Radnor, but he simply rolls his eyes – my cousin has always been a man ruled by schedules, especially when my international Portkey deposit is at stake. Alas, I will have no more time with Asher, no matter how charming he is...  
  
And then Radnor takes my hand, and I finally let the persona drop, at least between us.  
  
 _Okay, so that was amazingly done,_ Tonks says over our link, _but don't tell anybody about that one, okay? Albus will actually murder me if he finds out you spent half an hour flirting with a Death Eater!_  
  
 _We weren't flirting, he was teaching me duplicate-ball pool!_ I say. _And what's wrong with it, anyway? It was hilarious! There's nothing wrong with getting one over on a Death Eater, is there? Just imagine his face if he knew I was the Boy who Lived!_  
  
 _Oh, trust me, I would have been rolling on the floor laughing if I'd been myself,_ Tonks says with a smirk. _But most humans have no appreciation of impostor humor._  
  
 _Humans are boring_ , I complain, my face settling into a pout.  
  
 _Now you know how I feel!_ Tonks laughs over our link, but then he freezes for a second, taking out his wand and casting a few quick spells I don't recognize.  
  
 _What's wrong?_ I ask.  
  
 _Those were the wards on my flat. I was worried for a second there, but it looks like it's just Albus, breaking in with that damn phoenix of his. I keep telling him not to do that. Not sure what he wants, though... We should get home quickly._  
  
Then he adjusts his grip to be a little tighter, and Apparates us both away. We land on Tonks's usual Apparition rug, and I keep my footing this time – after all the practice we've had, I'd better. The moment I arrive, though, Albus Dumbledore steps right up to me.  
  
"Ah, there you are," he says pleasantly. "Good timing – I had only just arrived. How has Harry's training been going?"  
  
He thinks I'm Tonks, I realize, and an impish smile – both very Tonkslike and very genuine – spreads across my face. May as well make an exercise of this, eh? "Pretty well," I chirp, doing Tonks's shrug from memory as best I can. "Better when you don't cut our exercises short."  
  
"I apologize," he says, looking down gloomily at the rug, which is battling valiantly with his robes for the title of loudest textile in the room. "I had expected you to return home for supper – I didn't realize you'd be out when I arrived."  
  
"Why would we eat dinner as ourselves when we can eat dinner as other people?" I ask – I have Tonks's rhetorical-question tone down perfectly, if I do say so myself – and that's when the genuine article busts up laughing, swatting me gently on the arm.  
  
"Quit messing with the human," he tells me, before turning to Dumbledore. He smiles in Tonks's exuberant, sunny way, looking very strange on the dour, conservatively-dressed Pureblood body he's in. " _I'm_ Tonks. She's Harry. I assume this is about Harry's trial?"  
  
"And his birthday, yes," Dumbledore says, looking a little discomfited by his mistake. I blink. With all the training, I'd totally forgotten that I turn fifteen tomorrow. "But perhaps you could turn back for our conversation?"  
  
Tonks shrugs, then transforms back to her usual body, using a bit of Transfiguration on her robes so they just look incongruous instead of comically ill-fitting. She plops down into one of the armchairs.  
  
"Harry too?" prods Dumbledore.  
  
"I'd rather not, if you don't mind?" I say. "No sense waiting for Tonks to Transfigure me when I can talk just fine like this." I look my body over, smiling at the beautiful, elaborate robes, meant for rich Pureblood girls. "Besides, I like this. The Dursleys never let me wear anything nearly this nice." I let out a very Katerina-like giggle as I twirl my robes around. "I'm almost as flamboyant as you like this," I add, and Tonks poorly stifles her laughter. I smile at her, then sit down in the opposite armchair.  
  
"Very well," Dumbledore says. He still looks a little bit off when he turns to Tonks. "How would you assess Harry's performance so far?"  
  
"We're not _done_ , Albus, we still have a week before the end of the training course." Tonks glares pointedly at him – I get the sense they've had this discussion before. "But Harry's been a wonderful student so far – not that you couldn't have guessed by the fact that she got _you_. I think it's safe to say she'll have no problem with any of the ideas we came up with." She smirks. "So if you need a little extra time convincing my top choice, go ahead and start now."  
  
I smile at Tonks, snuggling into my chair a little further. It's a big relief that she's still happy to have me as a student. I couldn't be happier to have her as a teacher. It wasn't so long ago that I considered learning to lie as valuable as learning magic – it let me get food from neighbors, get myself out of trouble or Dudley into it. But I'd rested on my laurels after I went to Hogwarts. I thought I was already good at lying, but I was so wrong. I've learned so much in just two weeks of training. I've done things I can hardly believe, been people I would never have expected. Tonks made me push myself, in a way I haven't since those long-gone days with the Dursleys. I had almost forgotten how good it feels to work hard, to learn new things, to truly spread my wings. I haven't done it, either for lying or magic, in far too long.  
  
"Have you spoken to Harry about your top choice?" he asks. "Despite his evident success in adjusting to your training program – congratulations, by the way, I truly didn't realize who he was before you pointed it out – I must admit I'm still uncertain he'll appreciate the idea."  
  
"I can take that as you _okaying_ me to speak to Harry about it, then?"  
  
Dumbledore nods, and Tonks turns to me, leaning back in her chair.  
  
"So, first, consider the constraints on us in finding you a secret identity. We want to place you in the wizarding world, as a child of an Order member or a close associate who's in on the scheme. That has a lot of advantages – the Order will have unlimited access to you, with no need to sneak around an unknowing guardian or smuggle you into and out of Muggle society. The problem is, if an Order member produces an unexpected child at the same time Harry Potter disappears from public view, they and you would be immediately suspect. Most of the Order is, alas, not particularly subtle about their views or their membership, so we can assume they are under at least casual surveillance."  
  
I nod. She's right – it is a sticky situation. I think back to some of the books I've read about cover identities, cast my mind over the Order's membership roster. How can she get around that?  
  
"Happily, there is one member of the Order who has publicly maintained for fifteen years that he detests you, Albus, and everyone associated with you. Though his membership is known, even the Order itself largely believes him to be a traitor among the ranks and holds him at arm's length. Certainly not someone we would trust with Harry Potter, especially given that you hate the man."  
  
My mouth falls open. Oh... oh, that's _brilliant_!  
  
"Got it?" Tonks says with a grin. "I figured you might. I can only mean our spy, Severus Snape. How about you fill in the rest?"  
  
I smile and lean back, thinking. "It makes sense as a placement. Easy to come up with a history. He's the right age to be the father of a fifth year – same age as my real parents, even. And my persona would've been born during the war, so it wouldn't be so surprising if the mother of his child got cold feet about co-parenting with a Death Eater and hid me from him."  
  
"Good," Tonks says. "Anything else?"  
  
"Placing me as Professor Snape's child makes it easy to develop a persona who would be beyond suspicion," I say. "Simply acting as everyone would expect – close with my father, sorted Slytherin, gifted at Potions, enamored of Death Eaters and the Dark Arts, and dismissive of, er, Dumbledore and the Gryffindors" — I can't help but catch the man's eye at that — "would rule out any chance of me being Harry Potter in most peoples' minds."  
  
Honestly, the possibilities for my persona fascinate me. My biggest regret about Harry Potter is that I couldn't study, learn, or make the most of my time at Hogwarts. This would change that.  
  
Seeing how the other Gryffindors treated Hermione made intentionally hurting my grades – getting questions wrong on purpose, refusing to study, writing essays in ten minutes or less – seem like the best solution. I figured the OWLs and the NEWTs were the only things that mattered. But I overlooked the biggest benefit of a Hogwarts education: the _Professors_.  
  
Most students never think about it, but the Professors of Hogwarts are the best and brightest in their chosen fields. Professor Flitwick is a dueling champion and inventor, and Professor Sprout is a renowned experimental breeder. Professor McGonagall is a world-leading expert in animate Transfiguration, and they say the students who excel in her class get personal training from Albus bloody Dumbledore and Nicholas bloody Flamel, _the_ Transfiguration master and _the_ Alchemist! Professor Vector is responsible for the whole field of stored-program Arithmancy, Professor Babbling was the one to finally decode Sikalla after three thousand years, and _I don't even take their classes!_  
  
Some of the staff are exceptions – Binns, Burbage, Trelawney, and the Defense Professors – but so many fascinating subjects are taught by the best of the best. And I have played the fool in front of all of them, for four years!  
  
But I most regret the way I treated Professor Snape. For all that he lacks in teaching skills, he's an actual, bona-fide genius, one of the most widely respected in his fields. He has a new paper out in Potions or Dark Arts almost every month. And I've been in a pissing match with him since first year over _nothing_. He was rude to me, and Gryffindor hated him, so why not? Merlin, was I an idiot.  
  
Being Snape's daughter would change all of that. Obviously, I'd have to repair my relationship with him. I'd get the chance to learn from him directly. I'd be expected to study my hardest and perform at my best in all my classes, a Professor's child driven to excel. And I'd be expected to learn the Dark Arts, which Harry Potter would never have been allowed. This training with Tonks is the first time I've been able to spread my wings in years, but it doesn't have to be the last. With this persona, I can truly see how far I can fly.  
  
If it weren't for my weeks of training with Tonks, I don't think I'd be able to hold in my dreamy smile.  
  
"And the risks of being placed with Severus Snape?" Tonks nudges, smiling gently at me.  
  
"He despises my father, and me by extension, so it's an open question whether he would be able to treat me as his child. He's certainly never demonstrated much self-control around me in the past. On the other hand, his survival as a spy since the first war suggests that he does possess the requisite ability, if he can be persuaded to use it."  
  
Tonks nods, and motions for me to go on.  
  
"There's also the risk that he is a Death Eater in truth," I say. "There is little you can do to protect me from him, so if he chooses to give me to the Dark Lord, it's all over."  
  
"Excellent rundown of the major points for and against," she says. "So you're willing to do it?"  
  
"Absolutely!" I say. "It sounds like a brilliant idea, if he's on board and Professor Dumbledore can ensure his loyalty."  
  
"And you're certain you can set aside your own dislike for the man?" Dumbledore asks.  
  
"You really think Tonks hasn't had me take roles Harry Potter would find distasteful?" I ask, my eyebrow quirking up as I gesture to my very Pureblood clothing. "If I couldn't handle that, we'd already know."  
  
He directs his gaze toward Tonks. "You truly feel he could stay undetected in this role?"  
  
"I have complete confidence in her, for this or any role," Tonks says. "She's a lot better than the people you sent into the field, Albus. I still say you could have let them train longer."  
  
He winces, apparently sharing Tonks's concern for his field agents.  
  
"Anyway, what did you actually come to talk about?"  
  
Dumbledore hums and steeples his fingers. "The birthday part first, I think. After Harry's trial, the rest of the Order is planning a combination birthday and victory celebration," Dumbledore says. "They'd like Harry to spend at least the afternoon and evening at Grimmauld Place." He directs his gaze to Tonks. "I know you're protective of your training time, but I think this—"  
  
"I get it," Tonks says. "Go right ahead. Harry, enjoy your afternoon off."  
  
I raise an eyebrow. From the beginning, Tonks has been insistent that we make the most of our time together. "Really?" I ask.  
  
She smiles, shrugs. "When I set up the curriculum, I figured we'd just now be getting out of the basic stuff. But you've been such a natural, we've been on advanced topics since week one. We can spare a day. You'll do fine."  
  
She looks a bit less comfortable, glancing down at the floor.  
  
"Besides, this is... probably the last chance you'll have to see your friends as yourself for a few months. You've only got about a week before your true Transfiguration, too. So, in a way, it's their _last_ chance to see Harry Potter in the flesh. Next time you meet, you'll have to temporarily Transfigure yourself back."  
  
"But... you're _always_ Transfigured," I say. "That doesn't make you any less Tonks."  
  
"I'm glad you see it that way, but most humans don't. Undercover Aurors almost make a ritual of it – their last day with their families and friends. You deserve it. Even if you can't tell them why this day means so much to you."  
  
It takes me a few moments to get back into the Gryffindor mindset so I can understand. "Thanks, Tonks," I say. "I'll make the most of it."  
  
"Enjoy yourself, Harry," she says with unusual solemnity – before she cracks a grin. "But don't worry, we'll be right back to our exercises the next day."  
  
"I'm looking forward to it," I agree with a smile. "But, er, one more question... All of this is what we'll do if I _win_ my case, right?" I finally let the worry that's been gnawing at me these past few weeks show through on my face. "What happens if I don't win, Professor?"  
  
"You will," Dumbledore says, voice calm and soothing. "Fudge is tightening his grip over the Wizengamot and the DMLE, but not so far that he can get away with performing a sham trial on the Boy-who-Lived."  
  
He glances at our skeptical expressions and sighs, apparently resigning himself to the fact that this training is turning me rather more tactical than he might prefer.  
  
"In the event you don't, however, I'll give you an emergency Portkey, designed to be worn under your robes, powerful enough to shred through the hallowed and ancient wards of the Ministry of Magic and take you to my cottage. And since you are less than a week away from leaving the name Harry Potter behind, I doubt it would change our plans much, in the end."  
  
"That works," I say. "So, what's the plan for the trial itself?"  
  
~~  
  
"You are Harry James Potter, of number four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?"  
  
"Yes, sir," I say mildly, looking up at the Minister on his high chair with something resembling awe.  
  
"You received an official warning from the Ministry for using illegal magic three years ago, did you not?"  
  
"Mistakenly, but yes, sir."  
  
"Mistakenly?!" thunders Minister Fudge. "What poppycock is this!"  
  
"What was the mistake?" asks Madam Bones, the witch in the monocle on Fudge's left.  
  
"I had a house-elf visiting, ma'am," I say, my voice still bright and cheerful. "He hovered a cake, but the Ministry thought I cast the spell."  
  
Those who know me might be wondering at this point if I've somehow been lobotomized. The truth is rather simpler: Tonks and Dumbledore told me to treat this as one of my exercises, putting my best face forward in front of the Wizengamot. It's actually a little strange – it's the first time I've had my own face on in two weeks, but I'm wearing Tonks's clothes from the Closet, not mine. Still, I've been Harry Potter for four years – it's not so hard to be him for a few hours more. And the task they gave me is honestly hilarious.  
  
Minister Fudge expects me to come in with an attitude – hotheaded, rebellious, and easy to provoke. But if I lash out at the Minister of Magic, I'll surely be convicted. So instead, they asked me to be unfailingly respectful, relentlessly cheerful, unflappably calm, and a little bit naive, a young boy awed by the Wizengamot around him and sure that this little mess will be properly cleared up. The way I acted in second year, basically. They were sure it'd drive Fudge up the wall. It's already obvious how right they were.  
  
"A house-elf? _Visiting_?" Fudge's face is reddening. He's raising his voice, shouting the obvious. On the inside, I'm wearing a wide smirk. He's behaving just like Dumbledore expected. "In a Muggle house!"  
  
"It's not a Muggle house, sir," I say. "I live in it, and I'm a wizard."  
  
Fudge splutters and stammers, but Dumbledore cuts in. "The house-elf in question is in the employ of the Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry," Dumbledore says, and I give him a sunny smile. "I can summon him as a witness, if you like."  
  
"That's beside the _point_ , you—"  
  
Fudge clears his throat, ruffles his papers, turns his focus back to me.  
  
"Despite your _official warning_ ," Fudge says, his face turning more of a puce, apparently intending to proceed as if the previous exchange hadn't happened, "you conjured a Patronus on the night of the 13th of July?"  
  
"To scare off the Dementors," I say, "yes, sir."  
  
"Dementors?" asks Madam Bones, her eyebrows flying up. "What do you mean?"  
  
"There were two Dementors in the alley, ma'am," I say. "I was afraid for my and my cousin's safety."  
  
"And you produced a Patronus powerful enough to repel them?" asks Madam Bones, looking curious. "A corporeal Patronus?"  
  
"Oh, yes, ma'am!" I say, smiling proudly like a schoolchild with a gold star on my report card. "It's a stag. I'd be happy to show you, with appropriate adult supervision."  
  
There are actually some quiet chuckles from the Wizengamot at that. "Impressive," Madam Bones says. "At your age—"  
  
"It doesn't matter how impressive the magic was!" Fudge says. "And that story is just as I expected – a very nice little cover story, very nice indeed. Muggles can't see Dementors, can they, boy? Highly convenient, highly convenient... so it's just your word and no witnesses..."  
  
"Well, I don't know why else I would cast a Patronus Charm, sir," I say. "Muggles can't see Patronuses either. Their only purpose is repelling Dark creatures." That seems to flummox the Minister.  
  
"But why would there be Dementors in Little Whinging?" Madam Bones asks.  
  
"They didn't say, ma'am," I observe to another chuckle from the crowd. "But I thought they might be after Sirius Black. I'm sure Minister Fudge must be closing in on him by now."  
  
Minister Fudge has now changed color so many times I'm almost curious if he's a Metamorph himself. Even Uncle Vernon can't match his vibrant color palette.  
  
The rest of the hearing proceeds in much the same manner – Fudge, and later his very pink undersecretary, trying to provoke me, myself sunnily brushing them off, and Dumbledore acting as the voice of reason. He brings in Mrs. Figg as a witness, to testify to the Dementors, and by that point, it's pretty much over, the Minister having made an utter fool of himself. All but half a dozen vote to acquit me.  
  
I thank the Wizengamot happily, before letting Professor Dumbledore whisk me off to Grimmauld Place.  
  
~~  
  
Somewhere in the drama of the past year, I'd forgotten how _fun_ it is to be Harry Potter. A simple boy with simple pleasures and ironclad friendships.  
  
It's not like I haven't been having fun all summer, but the fun I have as Tonks's trainee comes in very different flavors – the complex, multilayered fun of tricking people, the exploratory fun of turning into someone hilarious and beautiful and totally different from myself, or the intellectual fun of diving into culture, history, and fashion. And those flavors are awesome. But I _miss_ this one, and I didn't even know it until I was back. It's relaxing. Comforting.  
  
So, as if we're making up for lost time, me and Ron and Hermione and all our friends rock Grimmauld Place for the whole rest of the day, and I shut out all thoughts of my training just as firmly as if I'm playing a role. I only slip once – in one strange moment when I run into Professor Snape in the hall, and I know he knows, and we both just stop and stare. I can't place the expression on his face – can't understand it. And I'm sure he's probably confused about how I'm acting, too. I'm sure he wants to talk as desperately as I do. But we can't, not here, not now, not in the middle of headquarters with my friends around me. So instead we just turn and walk away. Ron, Hermione, and I go back to our fun.  
  
But eventually even we get tired. We end up in the room Ron and I had shared, back when I was staying in Grimmauld Place. I'm flopped onto my bed, Ron and Hermione sitting on his side-by-side, all of us smelling faintly of Dungbombs.  
  
"You haven't sent us any owls," Hermione says, her voice friendly – naturally, after all the shenanigans of the day – but a little worried. "Has anything been going on since you left?"  
  
"Oh, really?" I say, smirking up at the ceiling. "No letters for two weeks? Gosh, that's horrible. I could never understand how it feels to go through that. Would it help if I said Dumbledore made me swear?"  
  
"Harry..." Ron suddenly sounds worried, too. Bollocks, I don't want to scare them. "We didn't—"  
  
"Sorry, just giving you a hard time." I swing myself upright, showing them my smiling face. "I promise, I'm not still mad. Sorry if I was a bit of a jerk when I first got here, but you know you're my best friends. Of course I forgive you, especially now that I've cooled off a little."  
  
"You were a little scary back then, you know?" Ron says, relieved but not yet making eye contact. "I don't think I've ever seen you that mad before."  
  
Hermione, too, is still fidgeting. "With that, and then you not owling us, I was worried we'd really messed up..."  
  
Well, fuck. I creeped them out pretty bad. They'd definitely hate the truth – I'm always like this around Muggles, and that time I was so mad I stopped hiding it from them. It takes me a few moments to come up with a passable excuse. "I guess now you've seen the bad side of my temper. The Dursleys bring it out in me, you know?"  
  
"I'm not blaming you," Ron says. "They deserve it."  
  
"You don't," I say. He wouldn't even think _they_ do, if he knew. "And sorry about the lack of owls, I've been busy these last two weeks. Dumbledore set up special lessons, and I haven't had much time to myself."  
  
"Oh, what kind of lessons?" Hermione asks, perking up, and I chuckle. Of course she'd ask.  
  
"Sorry, can't say." I grin. "Dumbledore actually _did_ make me swear to that."  
  
They groan good-naturedly. "But... you're back now," Ron says. "So... does that mean you're not really going into hiding? That you got bored, and you'll be coming back?"  
  
"I'm afraid not," I say, and their faces fall. "Look, it's not about you. I love you both. You know that. I just... Honestly, it's like I'm a Voldemort magnet or something, he always seems to show up when I'm there. I can't do anything about that, but... I can at least try not to get murdered. I can make sure I don't bring him down on you again. And I can make sure that, next time I see him, I'm ready for him. This is how I do that."  
  
They still look sad – I think Hermione actually has tears beading up in her eyes – but neither of them looks like they want to object. That's a relief.  
  
"Er... what do the others think?" I say. "About this?"  
  
"They don't know much," Hermione says. "You barely told us anything when you left, and Dumbledore hasn't said anything either." She glances at my pillow. "A lot of us are pretty worried."  
  
I frown. I didn't even think about how people would react to my hasty departure. "I'll fix it, I promise. I'll explain everything at dinner. Okay?"  
  
They nod and smile, and it's as if a cloud has passed from their eyes. We go back to just chatting about silly, inconsequential things, until Mrs. Weasley calls us downstairs. The dinner is predictably amazing – she cooked most of it, but Professor Dumbledore brought sweets, and he even got the Hogwarts house-elves to make some of my favorite desserts.  
  
Now that Ron and Hermione pointed it out, I really can see the tension. People are worried about me. They're not going to see me for a long time. I already promised I'd tell them, but just looking at their faces, I know they want me to explain. Say how I feel about them. Leave them a moment to remember me by.  
  
There's no moment that says when to start. No cue. I just rap on my glass, and start talking.  
  
"Hey," I say loudly. "I... I have something important to say. I think you've already heard, but I want to say it for myself: I'm going into hiding, so... it'll be a while before you see me again."  
  
Good way to start a speech. All eyes are on me now.  
  
"I've always had a more interesting life than most, but... this summer, I got attacked by Dementors, expelled from Hogwarts, my wand ordered snapped, and I stood trial before the full Wizengamot. And July's not even over yet." I see levity sparkling in a few peoples' eyes – they think I'm joking. "It's too much!" I yell, my voice quivering as I wipe my eyes. "It's too much," I repeat in a whisper. "I'm only fifteen."  
  
Now they're staring shocked. Harry Potter has never broken like this before. Or, at least, I've never let them see it. When I was younger, I would have felt horrible about it. _Showing weakness_. And yet now I feel good, getting it off my chest after all these years. A brief moment of honesty.  
  
"We found out this summer that some of the magic that was supposed to protect me wasn't quite working properly. Which... actually, explains a lot." I smile, and that gives the table permission to laugh. "Without that magic, and with Voldemort back and coming after me, it's too dangerous for me to stay in the wizarding world, or at Hogwarts. And if I stay in Grimmauld Place with all of you, I'm putting you in more danger, and I can't do that either." I spread my arms, looking away as if bashful. "So I'm leaving. Dumbledore has a safe place for me, and I just... I'm going there. So..." I take a deep breath, letting my gaze travel across the worried crowd. "Thank you. All of you."  
  
It's definitely gratifying to see a whole table of faces brighten in an instant. I was right. I needed to do this.  
  
"I just... I can't tell you how much it means to me that you've all been my friends, my teachers, my protectors. And, most of all, I'm thankful that you helped me believe, for the longest time, that the wizarding world was a place of wonder undimmed by cruelty and pain, a place where bravery and loyalty and intelligence always triumph, and... and the man with the longest, greyest beard can make everything right in the end."  
  
No one laughs louder at that than Albus Dumbledore himself. No surprise, but I truly am being serious. I wanted to believe that things could be different here. I did believe, for a while. I wish they were.  
  
"It isn't true. I've learned that all too well these past few months. There's no right ending for Cedric Diggory." They look abashed for a moment, but I glare at them with determination in my eyes. "But it should be true. It can be. And it will be, if we all fight for it. So I know it'll hurt you all for me to go – I know because it hurts me too. But this is what I have to do to make that dream of mine come true."  
  
There are cheers. There are _actually_ cheers. The worry is totally gone from Ron and Hermione's faces, Molly and Ginny are starting to tear up, the Twins are grinning, even Mad-Eye Moody is barely scowling. I haven't had a Harry Potter plan go this well in ages, and it feels wonderful.  
  
"I promise you, I'll be working hard. You probably know I've never been the most diligent student before. There's always been other stuff on my mind. But I have a goal now, and I'll do what I have to do to reach it. And if that means passing Potions, I'm gonna pass Potions." The mood is getting positively jovial after that laugh. "And I won't just be covering the normal Hogwarts courses, either. Professor Dumbledore is setting up special lessons for me – I've already taken some of them – and I cannot be more grateful. Besides, I'll be gone, but I won't be far. I can still write letters, and I will. _All_ the time. And that goes for all of you! Ron and Hermione, obviously, and Sirius, Fred and George, and Ginny, but also Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Professor Lupin, Professor McGonagall, Tonks, Moody, Auror Kingsley... everybody. We need all of you. I need all of you! And I won't let any of you think that I've forgotten you."  
  
Also, I know they'd hate hearing this, but I really can't pass up the opportunity to make connections, build influence, and cultivate sources. I am going to be a Slytherin, after all.  
  
"And I hope... I hope that next year, I'll be saying hello to you all at Hogwarts," I say, lowering my head and smiling bashfully. "Thank you, everyone. That's all I have. Sorry I didn't say any of this sooner."  
  
And as the others burst into thank yous and congratulations and good wishes, I feel incredibly satisfied, basking in the adoration and praise. I'm not really the perfect Gryffindor I claim to be – the rest of the summer has made that all too clear. But it's nights like this that remind me that I do love being Harry Potter. Sure, he's only a part of me, but I think he's still the part I like best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to @GlassGirlCeci, my wonderful beta reader, who receives an emergency Portkey.
> 
> Progress update: chapters 4 and 5 are first drafted (I may possibly split chapter 4), chapter 6 is well underway, and my working doc contains 16,913 unposted words.


	4. Who Is Iolanthe Snape?

The four of us sit in comfortable, squashy chairs around a meeting table, conjured in the middle of an anonymous, empty Hogwarts classroom now underneath the heaviest privacy wards I've ever seen. Neutral meeting grounds, somewhere the rest of the Order won't find us. Tonks is on my left side, Professor Dumbledore on my right. And across the table from me sits Professor Snape.  
  
"Obviously, Albus has told me what this meeting is about," Professor Snape says, with the same sneer he uses when he sees the Weasley Twins, hateful but also fearing pranks. "But I would like to hear it from your mouth: you truly wish to be hidden as _my_ child?"  
  
"Yes, sir," I say, in a solemn tone that has never before passed Harry Potter's lips. "Tonks proposed it, and gave very good reasoning for it. I agree with her. This is the best option I have, if you are willing."  
  
Professor Dumbledore looks cheered in the background, apparently happy that I've managed to get over my rivalry. But Snape's sneer grows even more pronounced, as though he thinks I'm pretending – which, of course, I am, but honestly, not that much. I'm mostly just not Gryffindoring.  
  
In the time I've known him, Professor Snape has proven himself shrewd, intelligent, and a master of his fields. Granted, he can't stand me, but he is no less worthy of my respect than Professor McGonagall, and it actually bothers me the way I have to shit on him most of the time. This is _nicer_. It feels like something's lifted from my shoulders.  
  
I'm not dressed the way I normally would, either. I'm wearing Wizarding casual – a blue tunic over wizard-cut slacks. The way Slytherins dress in their free time, whereas Gryffindors tend to dress like Muggles. Professor Snape would know this isn't normal for me, but since he and his students dress this way, he should take it as an indication of either respect, or my willingness to blend in. Like at my trial, I'm wearing clothes from the Closet, but I imagine my wardrobe after transformation will be something like this. Well, the girls' version, but it'd be the same style.  
  
"Then you don't truly comprehend how difficult a task it would be," he says with a scoff. "A son of mine would be expected to go to Slytherin, practice the Dark Arts, be studious and academically successful, be friendly with the children of Death Eaters and antagonistic to your friends and the Order's children, and, of course, treat _me_ with the respect due to your father. Death Eaters' eyes will be upon you, and any mistake could be reported to the Dark Lord within hours. I didn't think that even _you_ , Potter, would be so foolish as to miss that."  
  
"Everything you named is an enormous advantage, sir," I say. "All I would have to do is play my natural role as your child, and no one would ever suspect me."  
  
"They could be... if you could actually play the role." His glare is now so potent, you'd think I'm Neville Longbottom with a cauldron. "You have, in all your previous four years, given me no cause whatsoever to believe you capable of such a thing. There are only two reasons I'm even entertaining this. Auror Tonks's endorsement is one." We grin at each other for a moment. "Despite her juvenile behavior, I find her intelligent and capable, and I would not be so foolish as to ignore a Metamorphmaga on matters of concealment. Your speech on your birthday is the other."  
  
I blink. "You weren't present for my speech, sir."  
  
"No. But I did have to suffer through the next Order meeting in which it scarcely left the others' lips, yammering and blathering about how heartfelt and noble and brave it was... thereby revealing many details that I know for a fact are lies." The sneer falls for just a second, replaced by an expression I've seen only once before, when I decided to brew a potion perfectly just to see how he would react. This had been the result: a mix of disbelief, approval, and suspicion, as though he thought I'd somehow cheated. "I honestly did not believe you capable of such a thing, especially not to such an extent as to fool Auror Moody himself."  
  
"Thank you, sir," I say, bowing my head.  
  
"I will admit my surprise that you haven't attempted to similarly question me," he says. "Do you truly have so much trust in me?"  
  
"I have no doubt about your skill, Professor. You have acted as a spy among the Death Eaters for more than fifteen years. If you can accomplish that, I am certain that you can accomplish this." He looks astonished to hear those words pass my lips. "I would, however, like some proof of your loyalties beforehand. I am aware that Dumbledore trusts you, and so do I, up to a point. Giving you the ability to hand me over to the Dark Lord at any moment is beyond that point." It feels wrong to use that name for Voldemort, and I can see Dumbledore raise his eyebrow at it. But that's the name Professor Snape uses, and the name my persona will need to use. May as well get used to it.  
  
Professor Snape looks for a moment like he wants to snap, but instead he just closes his eyes and thinks, perhaps realizing that any of his Slytherins would have said the same thing, and in much the same manner. "I have agreed with Professor Dumbledore that, should I consent to this plan, I will swear an Unbreakable Vow that I will protect you from the moment you take the True Transfiguration to the moment you take another."  
  
Tonks and I gasp, our wide eyes meeting. Even by the standards of undercover missions, that's extreme. "Thank you, sir," I say breathlessly. "That is quite the sacrifice. But I would like to view the vow's specific wording beforehand – what if you do something that would jeopardize my safety before you take the vow?"  
  
"Then I would become obliged to inform you of the fact," Professor Snape says. Is that an ever-so-slight note of approval I see? "But for personal reasons, I cannot share the precise wording. Professor Dumbledore will contact you after I have taken it, and confirm that it has the appropriate effects."  
  
My gaze flickers to Dumbledore's, and he nods. I don't like that, but it will have to do. "Then I have no further objections," I say.  
  
"I will also set conditions," Professor Snape says. "You will have an introduction period of one week in which you will not leave my home and I will tell no one in the magical world of your existence. Should I feel, after that period, that you are incapable of performing the role, I will do as my vow demands, and protect you by insisting that you be placed elsewhere."  
  
"That's not unfair," I say, though Tonks looks less than pleased.  
  
"And if he impresses you?" Tonks cuts in. "You know the delay will hurt both of your covers. Are you willing to introduce him to the magical world early?"  
  
" _If_ ," he says, the single word conveying a universe of skepticism.  
  
"That's all I can ask for," I say mildly.  
  
"I expect you to excel in your studies," he says, smirking as though he thinks that would be a deal-breaker. "And you will _not_ be playing Quidditch."  
  
"I welcome both," I say with a smile. "Playing Quidditch would jeopardize my cover, regardless."  
  
"Then..." Professor Snape is at a loss. "I have no further conditions to set, beyond that you are certain that you will go through with this scheme, and not abandon it."  
  
"Thank you, Professor," I say with a smile. "And I am certain."  
  
He doesn't seem to know how to respond. Instead, he looks away, turning to Tonks. "Who do you plan for him to become?" he asks.  
  
"I can't tell you that yet," Tonks says with a smile. "You see, the best way to come up with a story is to live through it. If you know beforehand what to expect, it'll change your reaction. So the only things we'll discuss with you beforehand are your child's mother and the details of the conception. That's all you _should_ know when your child arrives on the doorstep. And we'll discuss that with you separately, as Harry shouldn't know it."  
  
Professor Snape blinks, but says nothing, apparently struck by the logic of it.  
  
"Which does roll very nicely into my next topic," Tonks says with a grin. "You're both well-versed in traditional infiltration techniques, but this specific situation – having an agent take a long-term false identity – has many quirks that you might not be aware of. Let's run through the specifics. Assuming you don't mind, Professor?"  
  
"Of course not," he says, and we both settle in as Tonks starts to deliver another of her mind-bending lectures.  
  
~~  
  
"What _is_ this place?" I ask, my nose wrinkling as I look around the tiny, dingy flat – soiled appliances, water-stained walls, peeling paint on the ceiling. Light comes from a flickering fluorescent bulb overhead. It's furnished in almost totally Muggle style, just a Wizarding Wireless set in the corner giving any indication the place belongs to a wizard. And out the window is a long row of tall, concrete apartment blocks, dingy and dirty below cloudy skies. "Why are we here?"  
  
"This is your new mum's flat!" Tonks says with a satisfied air. She plops down onto a filthy couch, and I can hear springs groan as she does.  
  
I pout. The girl I now am – Cynthia Wood, a perky, cheerful Muggle rich kid wearing pink and white – wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this. Still, I manage to contain my disgust and sit down beside her.  
  
Yes, I'm a girl again. I have taken boy roles in my training, and I'm good at them too, but I don't like them as much. They're not as fun. So Tonks and I spent the last week of training on all girl roles. That's what I need, anyway – I'm definitely going to take a female persona, after all.  
  
"My _mum's_ flat? Really?" I ask, staring down at my legs. The couch is _sticky_ , and I don't like it. "Who is she? Why would she live here? I didn't even know Snape associated with anyone in the Muggle world."  
  
"Margaret Flamebranch was a Ravenclaw student, the same age as your parents, with a Muggle mother and wizard father. She was friends with Professor Snape, and they kept their friendship going well into the war, even though she herself was neutral. She had another friend, Dorcas Meadowes, who was a member of the Order of the Phoenix. She'd captured or killed many Death Eaters, and Lord Voldemort came personally to execute her." Tonks lowered her head. "They had just sat down for dinner. Margaret and her family had been invited."  
  
I take a deep breath. I'm not gonna like what comes next.  
  
"She was the only survivor of the attack, left blind in one eye and with cursed burns on her face, arms, and body. St. Mungo's wasn't able to repair the damage. She was ashamed, and left the wizarding world forever, unwilling to let her former friends see her as she now was. She moved to Liverpool, worked menial Muggle jobs, and lived in this flat for the past sixteen years. She died last week from long-term curse damage."  
  
"That's horrible," I breathe. I feel cold, just sort of staring at Tonks. She deserved better.  
  
"It is," Tonks says solemnly. "Three weeks ago, Albus approached her to ask if she would allow her identity to be used for your protection. She agreed, on the condition that you never see her. I'll be able to stand in for her."  
  
Tonks starts to change, and I can't take my eyes off it. Her face – Margaret Flamebranch's face – looks melted and warped, a gruesome map of deep red and pale white scars mixed with raw pink patches of skin. Her mouth is crooked, one side seemingly webbed down to her chin, her lips large and swollen. One eye is milky and unmoving, covered by a half-closed eyelid. Her hair is cut short, but on some parts of her head, she has none, just scarred skin.  
  
"So?" she asks, in a rough, croaking voice.  
  
I can hardly look at her. "I... I understand why she fled."  
  
Tonks nods. "The story we'll be using to explain your birth is that you were conceived a week or two before the attack that disfigured her, close enough to it that she didn't realize she was pregnant until well after the attack. By then, she had already withdrawn from the wizarding world, and had no interest in ever meeting Severus Snape the Death Eater again. You were born in the Muggle world and lived there all your life, homeschooled in magic by your mother. You grew up believing your father dead, but your mother left you a letter about him that you'll find in a few days."  
  
We just sit there for a second, staring at each other.  
  
"What do you think?" Tonks asks.  
  
"It's a good story," I say reluctantly. "Amazing, really. It explains why Professor Snape didn't know about me. It sets me up to be an angry, Muggle-hating Slytherin, and a determined student of magic and the Dark, but... It's just so _sad_."  
  
"Yeah. I know. But it's the best we've got."  
  
"I'm not complaining. Just surprised."  
  
"Good. Now, I'd like you to come up with a history of your early life," Tonks says. "It needs to be something you can easily remember, so using parts of your own childhood won't hurt. You really did grow up in the Muggle world, so you should have plenty to draw on."  
  
"Yeah. Give me a second..." I stand back up, pacing around the room. I can just barely see a grim, rusty playground from the window, half-shrouded in fog. This place is nothing like the manicured suburbia I grew up in, but it's full of Muggles all the same – and I'm sure they're no less nasty than the ones I grew up with, especially for someone whose mum looks like that. Merlin... what do I even need to _change_ , beyond the places, the names, and the scenery? My real childhood – living among Muggles, abused and hated – is the perfect place to start.  
  
I've never told another witch or wizard about my childhood. Tonks will be the first to hear it – the whole, real story, not the Harry Potter sob story. It's not really one I'm proud of. I was awful when I was younger, and sure, maybe the Dursleys deserved what I did, but my teachers and classmates... they were just normal Muggles. My persona won't care. She's _supposed_ to be awful, and there's some part of me already exulting in the freedom of it. But there's another part of me that's terrified that if I let myself start, I won't be able to stop.  
  
It'll definitely help with my disguise – no one will ever believe that Harry Potter hates Muggles the way _I_ hate Muggles.  
  
I sit down on the couch beside Tonks, take a deep breath, and start talking.  
  
"As long as I can remember, people called my mother a freak, the lady with no face. And that meant, to my classmates and teachers alike, that I was a freak, too. I had no friends, and even the teachers didn't like me. So whenever I wasn't with my mother, I was surrounded by the worst, nastiest Muggles I could imagine. I was bullied and picked on regularly. It seemed like the whole world was against me. And the worst part is, I was powerless. I just had to take it. At least, until I turned seven. That was when I got my magic, and that was when I started to torture my classmates."  
  
Tonks is leaning toward me, engaged. She has no idea this is anything more to me than another backstory exercise. Good.  
  
"I didn't feel bad about it. Why would I? _They_ were the ones who should feel bad. They'd hurt me all these years, so now they were just getting what they deserved. I was better than all these filthy Muggles. Stronger than them. I had magic, and they... they had nothing. It was fun to push them around, so why not? That's the way the world works. They taught me that."  
  
I tilt my head back to think, my hair brushing against the nasty cushion. There probably are things I should add, since my persona's mum is a witch... oh. Aha.  
  
"I was eight the first time my mother told me I was acting like a Death Eater. I didn't know what they were, and when I asked, she wouldn't say anything more – afraid of how I would react. She was right not to. When I eventually found out, I was in love. Finally, people with the right idea about Muggles. People like me. I had shouting arguments with my Mum for years – her accusing them of disfiguring her, me saying that she should have joined them. I even kept a pet snake for a while, before Mum found out and killed it."  
  
I really did. His name was Longtooth, and he was very sweet, and I loved him, and he did not deserve what Uncle Vernon did to him. My persona wouldn't be a Parselmouth, though, just a fan.  
  
"The Muggles could never prove anything, but everyone knew what I was, and what I was doing. Sometime around my eleventh birthday, I was expelled from my Muggle primary school, and Mum homeschooled me in magic from then on. She never had much time, and she was never a very good teacher, but I was driven to learn everything I could. To become a great witch, no matter what. And I did, memorizing my schoolbooks cover-to-cover, practicing spells until my fingers were sore. I had a talent for wandless magic from my time tormenting Muggles, and I nurtured it. I can cast most first-year spells wandlessly – some second and third-year ones, too."  
  
Tonks actually looks a bit staggered. I guess this isn't much of a fun story either. "Careful. Don't put anything in your backstory you can't actually do. Wandless magic is a rare skill. You might not be able to get to that level."  
  
I don't say anything to that – instead, I just raise my right hand, and light a _Lumos_ on the tip of each finger.  
  
"Oh. Er. I see." Tonks looks a bit bothered. "You're just a little bundle of surprises, aren't you?"  
  
"I like it that way," I say with a smile as I lower my hand. "I never got along with my mother, but I did love her as my only connection to the magical world. But the moment I find out about my father, about Hogwarts, and I realize that I was entitled to all of this from the beginning, that my mother took it all _away_ from me because of her own disfigurement and her own shame... I'll start to hate her. In my more bitter moments, I may even call her _freak_." Tonks nods, though she looks a little worried. "My father? Before too long, I'll love him with fiery intensity. _He_ is the man who will truly give me magic." I take a deep breath, throwing off the intensity of my imagination. "So? How is it?"  
  
"It's perfect," Tonks says solemnly. "Just what people might expect of Snape's daughter. Nothing like the way people think of you. It's just..." Tonks looks uneasy, shuffling in her seat. "How much of that story was true?"  
  
Suddenly I feel like I've been doused in ice water. One part of me wants to launch instantly into a lie, another is frantically tallying what I've said to her, and a third just wants to get it over with and tell her. For a moment, I don't know what to do. By the time I decide, the choice is moot. Tonks already knows. A long, shaky breath hisses through my teeth. "Damn it," I breathe, turning my head away from Tonks as my eyes focus on a particularly ugly blotch on the carpet. "And I thought I was getting _good_ at lying."  
  
"Harry, you shouldn't _have_ to lie to me," she says. She holds my hand, and my wild-eyed gaze snaps back to her. "Albus told me how your aunt and uncle treated you, remember? And I'm an Auror, so... I've seen people like them. Too many. I don't hate you. I don't even think I can blame you."  
  
My breaths begin to even out. "Thank you," I whisper. "Please don't tell anyone."  
  
"Of course not, Harry," Tonks says. "I like you. I trust you. I wouldn't hurt you like that, or violate your trust. And I think... whatever your past is, you can deal with it. You always have – I mean, no one ever found out, right? No one ever guessed?"  
  
"No," I say, shaking my head. "No one until you."  
  
"Don't blame yourself," Tonks says. "I'm good at seeing behind masks. But... I do want to know what was real."  
  
"I didn't get expelled," I recite tonelessly. I've never been unshielded like this, not as long as I can remember. It seemed like such a good idea to use my story before, but now there's a pit in my stomach, and I wish I'd said nothing at all. "I didn't know what Death Eaters were – I didn't even know what _magic_ was, just that I could use it. Home was never a safe haven – the Muggles there hated me just as bad. Worse, at the end – I got good at lying, at school most of the teachers thought I was a little angel. And I said all that how my persona would say it, I'm not really... so proud of it." I swallow, my eyes closing. "The rest of it's true."  
  
I feel Tonks's hand let go, and I start to droop – before Tonks practically tackles me into the couch with a hug. "I am so sorry," she whispers, patting me on the back. "That's horrible."  
  
"Thanks," I say, finally starting to get my composure back as I smile at her.  
  
"It is going to be good for your persona, at least – having so many real memories you can draw on, if needed."  
  
"Yeah, I figured," I say. "I..."  
  
I want to tell her about my fears. About worrying that I'll get sucked into the role, that I won't be able to stop, that I'll turn back into the terrible little boy I used to be. I _really_ want to, I don't even know why. But I'm scared to. It felt good to be open with her before, but what if this is different? I just _don't do this_. I never have. And I... I can't. I don't know how she'll react. What if she does something I don't want? If she tells Dumbledore, I'm fucked. So I say nothing.  
  
"Thank you. What else do we have to come up with?"  
  
It's an enormous relief when Tonks lets that pass.  
  
We settle on a birthday – October 3rd, so I'll be of age sooner. On an appearance, too – I'll be a girl, obviously, and I'll have my father's wavy black hair and dark eyes, but my mother's freckled skin and softer facial features. And we pick a name – Iolanthe Dorcas Snape, with a wizarding first name that I would like, but a middle name in memory of my mum's Order friend that I would be ashamed of.  
  
Tonks turns me into my new persona – not permanent yet, just the same Transfiguration as always. We walk to the thrift store, and I purchase my Muggle clothes, shabby but with a punkish style to them. We spend some time picking up the accent, walking around the neighborhood – Tonks points out the rather dire-looking building that would have been my Muggle primary school – and getting into character.  
  
And we set the date for my final transformation: August 6th. Sunday. I'll have three more days to work on my backstory with Tonks, live in this apartment with her playing my mother, and then almost four weeks to get used to my new life with Professor Snape before it's time to head back to Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta read by the superlative GlassGirlCeci, who receives a conjured comfy chair.
> 
> Status update: I did end up splitting this chapter, and will be adding a new scene to the beginning of the next chapter in addition to the already-written true Transfiguration sequence. Accordingly, I currently have chapters 5 and 7 partly written, and chapter 6 fully first-drafted.


	5. Metamorphosis

"Sorry, Ma," I say, as I step back into her bedroom. She really doesn't look good these days, even by her standards – she's lying in her bed, propped up on pillows, her breaths shallow and weak. "We're out of tea."  
  
"Then can you please just get a job?" she asks, and I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. "I've supported you all your life. You can stand to feed me and buy my potions for" — Ma goes into a long coughing fit — "maybe a month or two more," she adds, in a feeble, gravelly voice.  
  
"Are you ready to let me work in Diagon Alley?" I ask. "Because I won't work for Muggles." Her expressions would be hard for most people to read, but I can tell she's glowering at me. I soften my tone in an attempt to forestall a rant. "Don't worry about it, Ma. I'll be back with some tea, and enough cash to hold us for a while."  
  
"You won't be stealing again, _will_ you?" she asks, her voice rising again.  
  
"Would you rather go hungry?" I ask.  
  
She doesn't answer, and the corner of my mouth quirks. She hates it when I steal from Muggles, but she knows she can't do anything about it, not now that she's bedridden.  
  
"Later, Ma," I say, grabbing my backpack and my jacket before heading out. The door of our flat slams behind me, its blue paint scuffed and its surface dented, and I dash off down the stairs. Time to go make some quid.  
  
I can't use wand magic away from home – apparently the Ministry of Magic would notice that – but _wandless_ magic, they can't detect. Which is good, because I've been practicing since I was too young to _have_ a wand, and it's more than enough to earn me some fast cash. I'm an old hand at petty theft these days. Opening vending machines, breaking into closed stores, all kinds of things. It's easy. I don't have to fence stolen goods, and I barely ever run into Muggles. It helps that I know how to pick locks with my magic.  
  
I know all the places to hit like the back of my hand these days, and with Ma's potions to pay for, I'm gonna have to hit a lot of 'em. I take a long, winding route toward the city center, my magic doing it's best imitation of a Somebody Else's Problem Field as I work, stopping every once in a while to steal.  
  
My hand presses against the grimy lock set into the metal back door of a closed bar. A pulse of magic reveals all the little bits of metal inside, the tiny little pins that keep it from turning. It's a simple matter of magical finesse to maneuver them to the right places, and then a little twist opens it right up. The bar's back hall is dark and grimy but ever-so-welcoming as I vanish inside.  
  
I've always had a knack for clairvoyance, and I'd already learned how to use it to case buildings, looking for cash, by the time I was eleven. Not that it's hard to guess this time – there's a safe in a back room, fully-loaded with last night's take. I step up to the door – and then freeze.  
  
Inside is a Muggle, and he heard me. I pull my hood down over my face just as the door opens.  
  
"Oi!" he says, trying to grab at me. "What do you think you're do— _ngh!_ "  
  
I thrust my hands out, my magic sending him flying back into the room, where he lands with a thud, his head cracking against a cinderblock wall. The corner of my mouth quirks as I use one of my special little spells to keep him there.  
  
It starts slow, as he struggles against my hold, yelling at me, calling for help. But before too long, his gaze drops downward, toward his arms. "What _are_ those?" he says, his jaw dropping as he stares at nothing. "Oh, god... get them off! Get them ooooff!"  
  
I grin, and release my hold. He just sits there, thrashing about on the floor, beating at insects that aren't there. Hallucinations. One of my specialties, ever since I was a little girl. He'll be ranting and raving down there for hours, and he won't remember anything at all about me when he snaps out of it. The school nurse used to have to strap people to the beds.  
  
I take a moment to admire my handiwork before moving onto the safe. Muggle out of the way, it's not long before I'm shoveling a pile of cash into my bag. I leave through the front door and skip off down the street, pleased with myself, still smiling a little at what I did to the Muggle. Next vending machine I meet, not only do I take all the cash, I grab myself a nice can of pop.  
  
Then I wince, sighing just a little as I let myself slip back into Harry Potter. Yes, Tonks had given me permission to do some petty theft, as long as I kept it low-key. Hopefully she won't be too mad about my trick with the Muggle – that honestly wasn't on purpose, I didn't notice him, and then... well, better that than getting caught, right? I haven't treated Muggles this way in a long time, but I know Iolanthe would.  
  
I robbed vending machines all the time when I was little – that's where I got all my spending money. I never burgled stores, though, wasn't fantastic at deadbolt locks – not 'til I went through the Dursley Lock Academy. I chortle, just remembering it. The summer before second year, the Dursleys were scared of all the magic I'd learned at Hogwarts, so they put a lock on my door, hoping to keep me away from them. I figured out how to open that after about three days, so they added another lock. Then another. They got all the way to number seven before they finally gave up and accepted that they couldn't pen me in. And I got a load of experience. Joke's on them – that was the best bit of wandless magic I learned all that year.  
  
But enough reminiscing. I look in my knapsack, smile at my take – this is hundreds of quid, Ma will be in potions for weeks – and decide that _I_ deserve something special. And there's a leather jacket I've been eyeing in a shop window for a long time...  
  
The security is always suspicious there – it's an upmarket department store, and I'm a poor teenage girl – but today I'm riding on air, my magic more eager than ever. With _ignore me_ emanating in waves, I try a few different jackets, pick my favorite, pop the anti-theft tag off with a quick spell, put it on, and stride out into the store again. I'm not even bothering to hide it – why would I, when the Muggles don't know I'm there at all? I catch my reflection in a mirror and grin. I look wonderful.  
  
And if I take a moment to adjust my expression and posture, getting rid of the last vestiges of Harry Potter, it doesn't detract from the soaring feeling in Iolanthe's chest even a little.  
  
~~  
  
"You ready?" Tonks asks.  
  
"I feel like I shouldn't be," I say in Harry Potter's voice. For the first time since I started my training, Tonks let me go to sleep as Harry Potter. It wasn't as comforting as I had expected. "You know, I'm going to take my true Transformation just... standing here, in the middle of your kitchen? Just us? It feels like there should be something more..." My eyes flick across the counters, now piled high with vials, Potion bottles, and other knick-knacks. "But there isn't. I'm ready."  
  
She nods. "Good. Now, first things first, we'll be making you a Transfiguration Talisman. This can transform you back into yourself temporarily, to hang out with friends or make public appearances." She picks up a golden locket from the counter, resting it in the palm of her hand. "We'll be making it out of this."  
  
"Isn't that the emergency Portkey I wore to the Ministry?"  
  
"Yup!" Tonks grins. "A lot of important wizards wear emergency Portkeys, so it won't surprise anyone that you have one, and we can use the Portkey's magic to camouflage the Transfiguration."  
  
"Clever," I say. "What do I have to do?"  
  
"Just give me your arm."  
  
I obligingly present my arm. Tonks presses her wand to it, and mutters a few words I can't quite catch. Then she presses it to the locket, and repeats the process.  
  
"Let's make sure this works..." She puts the locket on herself, and promptly turns into me. "Looks good!" It's a bit strange watching myself like that. But she quickly takes it off again, resting it on the counter.  
  
"Wait, anyone can use it?"  
  
"It's safer this way," Tonks says, returning to her usual face. "If it only worked for you, it could be used to identify you. Besides, you might want another Order member to stand in for you at some point."  
  
I nod slowly. "Right, makes sense."  
  
"Okay, second thing." She grabs two crystal vials, the kind that come with Preservation Charms. "I'll take a sample of your blood and a sample of your hair as a backup path to restoring you to your original body. You OK with the Blood-Drawing Spell?"  
  
"Never had it, but go ahead."  
  
At Tonks's orders, I rest my right arm on the counter. She presses her wand to the skin of my elbow. I feel a little prick, and then blood pours out, forming into floating droplets. It doesn't hurt – she doesn't even get any on my robes – but it still unsettles me, after what Wormtail did last June. She waits until she has a good collection of them before ending the spell and sending all the droplets pouring into the vial.  
  
"And the hair?"  
  
"Not like I'll be using it," I say, and Tonks snorts. "Go ahead."  
  
She holds up a lock of my hair – I wince, she's tugging a little hard – and severs it with Diffindo, dropping it into the other vial before sealing both with corks and then wax.  
  
"What's next?" I ask.  
  
"You've got a _lot_ of potions to drink," Tonks says. She picks one up, a little bottle of red-golden liquid that feels warm to the touch. "Phoenix's Gift," she says, offering the bottle to me. "This potion lets you split your magical identity in two, so spells, wards, and creatures won't be able to identify you, and it lets you switch between your identities at will. Also the best-tasting of the lot." I accept it, the glass warm to the touch. When I uncork it, steam starts to rise from the top. "Go ahead."  
  
I drink it down, and it tastes _warm_ , something like hot cocoa or cider with strong spices. It warms my belly for a moment, before the feeling spreads over my whole body, and then disperses, leaving behind dizziness and a strange alienation. I don't feel like myself. Probably because, magically speaking, I'm not. "How do I use it?" I ask weakly. "The switching."  
  
"We'll practice later," Tonks says. "It's not too hard. Anyway, next up: adoption potion!" She picks up a large bottle, much larger than usual for potions, more like a soda bottle than anything. The liquid inside is a nasty-looking concoction of several distinct shades of yellow and brown that don't seem to mix. It reminds me of smushed bugs on Uncle Vernon's windshield. "This will make your new identity, magically speaking, the child of Severus Snape and Margaret Flamebranch."  
  
I rear back. "I have to drink all of that? It looks horrible." As bad as Hermione's Polyjuice, and a lot bigger.  
  
"Yep, this one is always vile," Tonks says as she hands it off to me. "Tastes even worse than it looks. You don't have to chug the whole bottle down, though. Take your time."  
  
"Can I wash it down with water?" I ask.  
  
"Sorry," Tonks says. "No dice. But I can try and keep your mind off it, if it helps."  
  
The adoption potion is no fun at all, but I survive, drinking it a swallow at a time during a fifteen-minute-long, absolutely hilarious chat about that time Tonks impersonated a Norwegian ambassador. Eventually, though, the bottle is almost empty, and I swish the mush and dregs around the bottom before taking one last gulp.  
  
"Finally!" I say, at long last accepting a glass of clean water from Tonks and rinsing my mouth out. "That's it, right?"  
  
"Almost, just one more thing left. Your body isn't the only thing we'll be transforming today." She took out a circular piece of slate, set it down on the counter in front of me. "Put your wand in the middle."  
  
"What? We've never Transfigured my wand before – wouldn't that break it?"  
  
"You've never been around people who might recognize your wand before," Tonks says. "And there's never been any reason for people to suspect you might be Harry Potter before. That will change when you go to Hogwarts. But you're right. Transfiguring it would break it. So we won't be Transfiguring it, or deciding what it'll look like. We'll be using a ritual."  
  
Tonks takes out a piece of chalk and begins to mark out runes atop the slate circle. I've studied runes a little – secretly reading the textbooks in bed, since I never took the class – but I don't recognize any of these.  
  
"Your wand is connected to you. When you change, it wants to change with you. This ritual gives it that power. Lets it decide what its new shape will be. What kind of wand would be Iolanthe Snape's match." She draws one long line, straight through the center of the circle. "Go on, set it down," she says. "Right on the line."  
  
I hate to give up my wand – my magic, my strength. But I trust Tonks, and she's right: my wand does have to change with me, and I'd much rather that to getting a new one. I set it down on the slate with a click.  
  
Tonks takes out a bottle of gray powder, and pours it over the slate in a spiral pattern, crossing the wand over and over before ending with a heavy line of powder covering the whole thing.  
  
"Phoenix ash," she says. "A potent symbol of rebirth. It was in your first potion, too, all thanks to Fawkes."  
  
Tonks waves her wand, conjuring a very loud armchair in bright green, right across from the mirror.  
  
"You'll want to sit down for this next part," she says.  
  
"It's time?" I ask.  
  
"It's time," Tonks confirms. "This Transfiguration is going to hurt. I'm good at it, and I'll try to be as gentle as I can, but it's still going to hurt. The other times, we were just hiding your real body. This time is true transformation, leaving nothing behind. It's _messy_ , too – you'll end up with little bits of your past self, blood, guts, and all, smeared across your skin. You're going to want to take a shower as soon as we're done. I'm going to put you under the body-bind for this, because if you flinch or move around during the transformation, it can cause problems. And you will want to flinch." She smiles weakly, staring at me for a few moments. "You ready?"  
  
"Yeah." I sit down on the chair – it is _extremely_ comfortable. I take a moment to admire myself in the mirror – last time I'll be seeing Harry for a while. I take off my glasses, setting them on the counter behind me. Then I roll up my sleeve, showing Tonks my arm. "I'm ready."  
  
"All right," she says. "Close your eyes."  
  
I take a deep breath, fear prickling up my back, and do as she says.  
  
" _Petrificus totalus_ ," she casts, and I can feel my body freezing in place. Then she jabs her wand into my arm, and I cannot scream. This is beyond painful.  
  
My bones, my blood vessels, my organs – all are _shrinking_ , and the extra mass isn't going away. Huge swaths of my body are liquefying, and I can feel the flows moving around beneath my skin, body mass moving to new places, squeezing itself into my stomach, dribbling from my mouth, or pushing out through my skin. My dick melts, and Merlin, is that a strange feeling.  
  
Human Transfiguration has never been comfortable, but it never felt anything like this before. Even Polyjuice doesn't feel like this. Tonks is vanishing the biggest, nastiest bits of waste, but still, I must be hideous, my skin growing slick and slimy with the waste of my transformation.  
  
The shrinking stops, but the Transfiguration isn't over. My organs start rearranging, reforming, reshaping themselves. For a moment I can't breathe, and that's weird. And then my heart stops, and I'm terrified. I panic. I wish my eyes were open, so I can at least see what's happening, see Tonk's face, have something else to focus on – instead, I'm trapped in the dark, left with nothing but the pain and fear of my change. I can feel myself just starting to pass out when my heart flutters back to life in my chest, and I don't think I've ever felt so relieved.  
  
Finally, _finally_ , that good old fizzing feeling passes over me, pricklier than usual but definitely familiar, as Tonks goes over the last cosmetic details – my skin, my hair, my eyes, my nails – and then stops.  
  
It's done. It's _finally_ done.  
  
Tonks lifts the Body-Bind and I sag into the chair, taking big gulping lungfuls of air, just sitting there for a moment with my chest heaving. Finally my eyes crack open just a little bit – just enough to see the dirty, tired shape of Iolanthe Snape in the mirror across from me, my skin encrusted with smears of blood and some sallow liquid I don't recognize, spattered with little bits of bone and gore. I feel exhausted, but proud. It worked. It's over.  
  
"Can I go take that shower now?" I ask weakly.  
  
Tonks laughs, looking relieved. "Of course," she says. "Just two things first." She holds up a minuscule vial of a deep purple potion. "This one's naming potion. Your parents would have given it to you the day you were born."  
  
She hands it to me, and I swallow it down without question. Then she touches my head, placing her hands on my temples.  
  
"I name you Iolanthe Dorcas Snape," she says, a strangely bittersweet expression on her face. "Born on October Third, 1979."  
  
Then Tonks leans over, and kisses me on the forehead.  
  
"And you will be wonderful at it," she whispers, before pulling her head back and smiling.  
  
I just sit there, blinking for a second. "Er... what?" I ask, staring at her. We've kissed on exercises before – we've had a lot wilder kisses than that, actually. But she's never just _done_ it before.  
  
"Hey, it's traditional!" Tonks says, looking sheepish. "I can be sentimental if I want to. You can stand up now."  
  
I smile. "I understand. Sorry if I slimed you a little." I stand back up, and Tonks vanishes the now soiled chair.  
  
"Now, just put your hand over your wand," she says, motioning to it, sitting there buried in ash atop its slate circle.  
  
My hand brushes against the ash, and I can feel my wand beneath heat up, as if I'd cast a powerful spell. After a few moments, it shoots out big green sparks that burst like fireworks over the living room rug. Tonks nods to me, and I reach into the ash and pluck out my wand. It looks as unrecognizable as I do.  
  
Holly is a light wood, but my wand always had a dark varnish. Now that's almost gone, the wood bone-white except where there had been filler or carvings. Dark markings reveal the long spiraling groove where the wand was glued together, and a constellation of dots and tiny little runes across its surface. The shape has changed, too. It's now pentagonal, with gently rounded edges. It tapers a little at the tip, and the grip is circled by a tightly spiraling groove, highlighted with varnish.  
  
"For all its changes, it still feels wonderful," I whisper.  
  
"Congratulations," Tonks says, looking at it, casting a few spells. "Seems to be in good shape. I think the wood is yew. Still has a Phoenix-feather core, though. Interesting combination. Light core, Dark wood." She turns back to me with a smile on her face. "Now, get out of here," she says. "Go shower... Iolanthe."  
  
I do, running off to my bedroom with a smile. I strip, dumping Harry's baggy robes onto the bathroom floor – I just vanish them when I'm done, no way I'll be able to get these clean again. Then I hop into the shower and start to wash all the Transfiguration gunk off of me.  
  
But as all the slime pours down the drain, a realization slowly dawns: _this is me_. Part of me thinks it's silly that this bothers me – I've been taking other forms since the start of training, so I should be used to it, even for showering. But it's always been at a safe distance before. No matter who I was, what I looked like, I knew Harry Potter was still there, hidden underneath it all. This time, he's gone, and he won't be back for a year or more. This is all there is. I am Iolanthe Snape, and no one else.  
  
I dry myself off with a bit of magic – something I've done since I was little – then pick up my wand and style my hair the way Tonks taught me. I smile at myself in the mirror before stepping back into the bedroom where Margaret Flamebranch's old school trunk sits open, packed with all the clothes I'd gotten in Liverpool. I dress fairly nicely, wearing the jewel of my Muggle wardrobe, that wonderful shoplifted black leather jacket, over skinny jeans and a band T-shirt, Blue Oyster Cult, magically altered to fit me tightly. If there's anything Muggles do right, it's music, and I have a pile of their cassettes back in Liverpool. Besides, I look great in it.  
  
"Okay," I say, switching to Iolanthe Snape's Scouse accent as I step back out into the living room, dragging my trunk behind me. "I'm ready. Take me home."  
  
Tonks is waiting nervously on the couch, but she looks up and smiles when I step in. "Iolanthe..." She stands up, looking at me with a bittersweet expression. "It's been a real pleasure training you. There really aren't many people who take so naturally to changing shape. You're the sort of person who... could have been a Metamorph."  
  
I gasp, too shocked even to smile. I've talked enough with her to know how much that means.  
  
"You're not, and you can't become one – well, technically you can, but it's dangerous, illegal Dark Arts, and you shouldn't – but there are other options. The human Transfiguration I used on you, any witch can learn. You probably won't be at that level for a while – it's generally considered post-NEWT material, and it can also be dangerous – but there are illusion spells that you could probably learn today. So I wanted to give you this." She holds out one of the books from her own library, one I've read and reread over the past few weeks: _Illusion, Transfiguration, and Transformation: Reshaping the Human Form_. The standard text on changing shape.  
  
I gasp, a broad smile spreading across my face. " _Thank you!_ " I say as I accept it, cradling it gently in my hands. "I love this book, there's so much I want to learn – thank you, Tonks! And from your own library, too..."  
  
She laughs. "No problem. I mean, you did kinda get the Order to pay for a month off work. I figure I should at least give you something." She breaks eye contact, smirking at the floor. "I was actually going to buy you a new copy, but I figure my old manky one probably suits Iolanthe Snape better."  
  
"Definitely," I say. "No new books on my shelf. It's a well-concealed book on concealment. Thank you."  
  
"Yup," she says, as I slip the book into my trunk. "You all packed? Nothing left in your bedroom?"  
  
"Nothing," I say, offering her my hand for Side-Along Apparition. For the last time, Tonks's quirky living room spins away, and I'm deposited back in the grimy Liverpool flat where I've spent the last few days.  
  
"Good luck, Iolanthe," Tonks whispers, giving my hand one last squeeze. "Knock those humans flat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My amazing beta reader @GlassGirlCeci receives a Blue Oyster Cult T-shirt. 🎵 You see me now, a veteran 🎵 of a thousand psychic wars... 🎵


	6. Father

I step off the Muggle bus, and it rattles off down the street, a cloud of diesel fumes trailing in its wake. I wipe my brow, sticky with sweat. The summer's heat wave shows no sign of abating, and I've just spent three hours on Muggle transit because I can't afford the Knight Bus. I even had to filch a street map!  
  
My head turns round and round, taking in the scene. It's not pretty.  
  
Just past the sidewalk I'm standing on, a steep hill coated in litter and dead grass tumbles down to a dirty, foul-smelling river. There's no wildlife here, and if there were, I'm not certain the river wouldn't kill it. On the other side of the street are rows and rows of terraced houses, two windows and a door repeated endlessly across long walls of filthy old brick, every third or fourth house boarded up. There's a sick feeling in my gut. My father really lives here?  
  
I take that map back out, compare it to the shaky address in Ma's handwriting. Yes, this really is the place. I need to go three streets north, turn right, then walk all the way to the end of the road – which, I see, would be right under the shadow of the decrepit old mill.  
  
I hate this. I hate all of it. I wouldn't be doing it if I had a choice. It's hard to believe anyone magical could live in this place at all, let alone my father. Might be better than the hovel Ma and I called home, but not by much. Perhaps it's even on purpose. It'd be helpful for escaping the Aurors' notice, and Ma did say he was a Death Eater. But I'd always thought Death Eaters were supposed to live in magical places, not... not ones like this.  
  
As I start to slowly tramp down the dirty Muggle road, I finally let my mask slip.  
  
Yes, Tonks really did make me travel all this way on my own. I know she's right to, but I still kinda want to hex her. And, yes, it is hard to imagine Professor Snape living somewhere like this, the stern, imposingly magical Potions Professor growing up amidst all this Muggle shabbiness. This seems like the kind of place that makes Petunia Dursleys. I think it might _be_ the place that made Petunia Dursley, actually – didn't we stop in Cokeworth, when we were on the run from my Hogwarts letters? I entertain myself on my long, slow walk by picturing Snape cursing her over and over and over again.  
  
But soon enough, the sight of my destination pulls me out of my fantasy: an ugly pile of brick no different from any of the others, the house at the end of the road. Almost there now. I take a deep breath, and pull Iolanthe Snape over me once more.  
  
I look myself over ruefully. Not much chance of making a good first impression. I've been among Muggles all day, and I'm dirty, tired, and dotted with sweat. This had better not screw up my chance.  
  
At least my clothes aren't too bad for being Muggle. I'm wearing a tight, short-sleeved blouse with thin fabric and black-and-white stripes, something cool for the hot summer's day. I snort. Not quite cool enough. And I'm wearing trousers, my wand in the thin, long right-hand pocket I sewed just for the purpose.  
  
A bit of magic tugs my mirror out from my purse, flips it open and holds it out in front of me.  
  
My long, gently wavy black hair – my favorite thing about me, even if it does get a little oily sometimes – is looking just a little bit tangled, just a little bit frizzy, and I sigh. I wish I'd thought to bring a hairbrush.  
  
I look myself straight in my big, dark eyes, and force myself to smile. I'm here. It's time. Even if there are dragons battling in my stomach. My father _will_ take me in, I'll make sure of it.  
  
I put the mirror away and walk up to the door, the faint pricking of warding magic on my skin as I cross the property line making it clear that it is still the home of a wizard. Hopefully.  
  
My hand curls into a fist. I raise it up, then rap three times against the door's peeling paint. For a long time – almost a minute – there's nothing, and I'm just about to knock again when the door slowly creaks open.  
  
When I see the man who opens it, I can barely breathe. He's a tall man. His black oily hair dusts his shoulders, and it looks just like mine. I share his dark eyes, and his thin mouth. We don't look identical – his skin looks unhealthily pale, his nose a bit sharper, and he has no sign of my freckles – but there's no mistaking it: he really is my father.  
  
"Who are you?" he asks, his mouth curling into a sneer at the state of me. "Why did you come here?"  
  
"You're... you're Mr. Severus Snape, right?" I say, just barely managing to keep my voice level. He nods curtly. "My ma said to give you this letter."  
  
"Who is your mother, exactly?" he says, taking the letter grudgingly from my hands.  
  
"Her name was Margaret Flamebranch."  
  
He blinks. Pauses for a second, a distant look passing over his eyes. Then he tears open the letter and just stares at the contents, holding it gingerly, away from his face as if it were a dead mouse or something. He scans it quickly, then again, then a third time, more slowly. His face turns back toward me, pale in his shock. "You're my daughter," he says.  
  
"That's what she told me," I say.  
  
"I— the letter says— but I can't just take you in off my doorstep!" he says. "I need to talk to her, find out what's happened, why she's dying, why I never met you, why—"  
  
"No, you can't – she's not dying, she's _dead_!" I say, just barely keeping my voice from rising into a shriek as desperation grips me. "And they say if you don't take me they're going to send me to a foster home! With _Muggles_!"  
  
I flinch back, horrified at my loss of control – I have no idea how he'll react – but my father just pauses, tilting his head as he looks at me. "What's your name, exactly? How do you say it?"  
  
"Iolanthe Snape," I whisper. "Iolanthe Dorcas Snape."  
  
"I... I can't just take your word for it," he mutters. He'd seemed so composed at first, but clearly, this had rattled him. "I have enemies, I have..." His gaze locks to my face. "There are paternity-testing potions, I need to check you, make sure you are who you say you are..."  
  
He steps inside and starts to close the door, but then he stops, guilt flashing onto his face.  
  
"Come inside," he says, holding the door wider. "You can wait up here while I brew the potion."  
  
"Thank you," I whisper, smiling. It worked. He let me in.  
  
I step through the door, and into the blissful chill of a well-maintained Cooling Charm. I let myself relax. Maybe he doesn't totally trust me yet, but the potion will prove who I am. It has to. Still, my eyes dart around the sitting room, taking in perhaps the first _real_ wizarding home I've ever been in.  
  
"Look at all these books!" I say, my eyes running along the shelves that line the room, piled and stacked with books, books, books, nearly all of them wizarding books bound in leather or dragonhide – the only things that look cared for. I've never seen so many in one place before – growing up, books were always rationed, purchased whenever Ma had the cash, sold off as soon as I'd finished them. My curious side wants to read _all of them, now!_ and after some thought, my scheming side agrees. He's a professor, right? So he should approve. "Can I read one, sir? Just while I'm waiting?"  
  
"Go ahead," he says, stepping up to the shelves himself.  
  
I browse through, getting a sense of where things are — Potions along the inside wall, Dark Arts along the outside wall, other subjects toward the far end. I take out a book that looks interesting, and hopefully basic enough that I can understand it. I plop down into the faded chair by the window.  
  
My father pauses, staring at me uncertainly, a book – _Family and Ancestry Potions_ – dangling from his hand. "That's a Dark Arts book you're reading."  
  
"Yes? We never had many books around – we never had much money – but even when we could buy some, Ma never even let me look at the Dark Arts. I'm sorry, I'm just so curious, and when I saw your collection, I... It's not a problem, is it?" I look up at him, my big black eyes wide open. "Father?"  
  
He shakes his head, though I can see he still looks confused. "No. It's fine, Iolanthe. Just don't go anywhere. You're not in the wards yet, and mine are rather violent." The shadow of a smirk passes over his face. "I... I'll be back in half an hour with the potion."  
  
He steps up to the bookcase opposite the front door, waves his wand, and it pops open, revealing a hidden stairwell. He vanishes inside in a swirl of robes, and the bookcase shuts firmly behind him.  
  
~~  
  
Someone nudges my shoulder, and I jolt from my reading with a start. "The potion is ready, Iolanthe," murmurs my father, holding up a small glass vial filled with a silvery, turbulent liquid.  
  
I smile nervously at my reflection in the glass. "What should I do now?" I ask, setting the book down as I stand. I got through a lot in half an hour. Hopefully I'll get the chance to read them all. But the horrible fear that _I might not_ is now back in force.  
  
"Give me some of your hair," he says. "The tip of a strand will do."  
  
I run my fingers through my hair until I've worried out a single strand of my hair, then snip off a few inches with a quick burst of magic. "Here," I say, holding out the tiny black thread. "What will happen?"  
  
"If I'm your father? It should turn a deep shade of blue." He removes the cork from the vial, then drops the hair in.  
  
Sparks shoot from the mouth of the vial, and it briefly churns and bubbles. But then it slows, and stops, and what's left is a vibrant, beautiful blue.  
  
"As indeed it has," he whispers vacantly, and I smile. Of course it has. "You are my daughter."  
  
"So?" I ask. "Can I stay with you? Please?"  
  
"Of course," he says, and a victorious smile spreads across my face.  
  
" _Thank you_ ," I say, "thank you so much!" I hug him with all my strength, and for a moment he flinches back – uncertain? – and then he reaches down and hugs me back, resting his chin on my head.  
  
"The honor is mine," Father finally manages. "When did you want to move in?"  
  
"As soon as I can!" I say. Then I pause. His expression isn't quite right. "Why do you ask?" I ask. "Is there something wrong?"  
  
He shakes his head. "A triviality. I have a spare bedroom, but there's no bed in it at the moment – it's full of Potions supplies, and some of them are quite volatile. It will take a little while to ready it for you. Do you have somewhere to stay for at least a night?"  
  
"Yeah," I say cagily. "I've still got ma's flat for a week. I can deal with the Muggles if they come back."  
  
His eyes flicker away at that. "And you didn't bring a suitcase – I assume there are things you'll want to take?"  
  
"Yes, if you could Apparate me back one last time... I'm from Liverpool, I don't know if you've been?"  
  
"A few times," he says. "I could Side-Along you to the city center, but we'd have to walk from there."  
  
"That would work," I say, but my eyes are averted, my voice tight. I just found my father, and some part of me is petrified that he'll vanish if I let him out of my sight. And he notices that – his big dark eyes seen troubled.  
  
"For now, we should have dinner together. I..." His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, as my very reserved father reaches for words. "There are things I'd like to ask you, and I'm sure you have some questions for me. After that, I can take you back to your flat for the night. I will spend the next day preparing your bedroom, and you can pack your things. Would five in the evening be a good time to pick you up?"  
  
 _Tomorrow_ , I repeat to myself. _I'm leaving Liverpool for good tomorrow._ "Yeah," I say, "that sounds wonderful!"  
  
And then Father smiles, and it feels _so_ good. It's done. It's over. I finally get to go live with my father.  
  
It's not quite time for dinner yet, so instead we step into the kitchen, sitting around the table together. I tell him about my ma, about Liverpool, about my life – it's not very exciting, I feel like I'm underwhelming him, or maybe even grossing him out (and that's leaving out the really nasty stuff), but he seems interested anyway. I barely even feel the need to lie. And, in exchange, he tells me about his life, about his job teaching Potions at Hogwarts, about all the awful dunderheaded students he has to deal with, but also the beauty of the castle, the joy of research, and the pride in those two or three students a year who might actually make proper Potioneers of themselves. And I love hearing it, but at the same time, there's just a little thread of jealousy beneath it all – why didn't Mum ever let me go to Hogwarts? Why did she have to homeschool me? And there are lots of details to figure out – enrolling me at Hogwarts, dealing with the adoption lady and her paperwork, figuring out what to do with Ma's stuff. Plus I have questions about the book I was reading – turns out that was Father's first book about true Dark Arts! So he has lots of fond memories to share alongside a depth of knowledge that I quickly realize is encyclopedic.  
  
The sun dims outside, and eventually we both realize we're really hungry. Father goes into the kitchen, starts getting out ingredients – and then, on cue, we both start casting the privacy spells Tonks showed us.  
  
We'd decided ahead of time that the best place to have a masks-off moment between us was right when Father started cooking dinner, since he'd ostensibly be distracted with the cooking and not talking much to me. Plus, with all our introductions complete, we'd have a full report to give to Tonks.  
  
" _Expecto Patronum!_ " Father casts, and a wispy silver doe bursts from his wand and does a circuit of the kitchen. "Tell Tonks we're ready for her in the kitchen," he asks, his voice oddly shaky, and the Patronus obligingly speeds away.  
  
I mentally run through the afternoon's events while we wait: my arrival, our introduction, my reading, the paternity test, our conversation, now. I didn't slip up at all, as far as I can remember – I even got the reaction right when he startled me out of my reading, I always had trouble with that in our exercises. I thought Father might have slipped a few times, but not with anything major – he seemed surprised at a few odd times, but he did have a very good excuse for being surprised. Overall, a great performance. The control he built as a spy among Death Eaters is on full display.  
  
Tonks Apparates right into the middle of the kitchen, a big smile already on her face. "So how'd it go?" she asks. "The big introduction! I always get so excited when an undercover operation starts, isn't it just—"  
  
"Who _is_ that?" Father yells, his voice quivering with confusion, fear, and anger as he points at me. "Because I've taught Harry Potter for four years, and I assure you, that is _not_ Harry Potter!"  
  
"I promise, it is," Tonks says evenly. For my part, I can't help but stare, smiling open-mouthed. Coming from Professor Snape, I doubt there's much higher praise than this. "I did the Transfiguration myself, and before that, we spent three solid weeks in training."  
  
"Don't give me that," he hisses. "There is not a grain of cunning in Mr. Potter's body, not a drop of self-control, not even a spark of intelligence or a fume of deception! He is the spitting _image_ of his father, the model of an empty-headed Gryffindor! But _that_ " — he gestures wildly at me — "that girl, she can play a role better than any Slytherin I have ever met! I could hear the desperation in her voice, see the flames that another person might kindle and stoke to turn her into a Death Eater! With her first steps into the house, she plucked a Dark Arts book off the shelf, read most of it in half an hour, and then we had a twenty-minute long conversation about the Dark's finer points! That girl, I could almost believe is my real daughter!"  
  
The words hang in the air, fizzling and sparking. Even Professor Snape seems taken aback by just what came out of his mouth.  
  
"Really?" Tonks says, her voice slow and gentle, caressing the moment as a big, smug smile plays across her face. "Because the Harry Potter I know started training already more practiced in deception than half the Aurors who passed it. I'll let you guess at the reasons why. So instead of insisting that Albus and I somehow sent you an impostor... perhaps you saw the perfect Gryffindor because that's what Harry _wanted_ you to see?"  
  
Professor Snape blinks, his brow furrowed. He turns slowly to me. "And you... you truly do claim that you are Harry Potter?"  
  
" _Was_ Harry Potter," I correct, gesturing to my body. Professor Snape actually flinches to hear my voice come out in Harry Potter's mild Surrey accent instead of Iolanthe Snape's Scouse. "But yes."  
  
"Then how... what... why would you act like you did?"  
  
I smile, leaning casually on a counter. "Because being the Gryffindor twit everyone expected of the Boy-who-Lived earned me fame and adoration. It was nice being a wizarding superstar, especially the first year or two. I got away with so much..." I smirk, but look away. A whole lot of what I'd gotten away with had been at his expense. Best not to seem too smug about it. "So, yeah. You were right about me all along. I hope you're not too mad – any of your Slytherins would do the same thing, I think."  
  
Snape gets that look from our meeting at Hogwarts again – the one where he's not sure whether to smile or sneer. "Then what changed your mind? Why do you no longer wish to be a _wizarding superstar_?"  
  
"Because I don't want to _die_?" I shriek. "I didn't realize how much danger I was in at first. I'm pretty sure Dumbledore set up the whole thing first year on purpose – surely there have to be better ways to protect a stone if a pack of mediocre first-years could nab it."  
  
Judging by the look on Snape's face, he's shocked to be agreeing with me. Heh.  
  
"Then second year was the fucking basilisk and its enormous fucking fangs – it actually _bit me_ – fuck, was I terrified. Third year there were the Dementors, twice, plus a damn werewolf. And last year... last year was such a fiasco. I got shanghaied into the Triwizard, and that nearly killed me a half-dozen times, and then... and then I watched Cedric get murdered right in front of me! And Voldemort came back, and I... I just... I can't..."  
  
Oh, Merlin, I'm shaking like a leaf. There are tears starting to bead in my eyes, and I can feel the world starting to spin. Get a grip, H— Iolanthe, this is _not_ the time for a panic attack. I'm with two members of the Order. I'm safe. It's been two months, I need to stop freaking out about this. Tonks looks shocked and worried – she really has been a good friend – and, strangely, Snape doesn't have the gotcha look I'd expected. His expression is hard to interpret, but there's certainly no cruelty in it.  
  
"Anyway, I have lots of reasons to get the fuck out, even beside that. Like, you realize Gryffindors get mad at you for _studying_? Doing well in class?"  
  
Strangely, that makes him look almost sympathetic. Weird – somehow I just can't see the Head of Slytherin House playing confidante to beleaguered Gryffindors.  
  
"Just look at how they treated Hermione before I made friends with her."  
  
Hah, and that makes the expression vanish in an instant.  
  
"I have been intentionally getting every sixth question wrong – well, every fifth in Potions – since first year! Check my old tests if you don't believe me, you'll see it. I never studied except in bed at night, I've always taken the easy Os – do you realize I was in _Divination_ and _Care of Magical Creatures_? And spending ten hours a week on fucking Quidditch? – and, obviously, the Boy-who-Lived can't even _touch_ the Dark Arts."  
  
Now he just looks incredulous.  
  
"So I am truly looking forward to this chance to make the most of myself, sir, and not just because I face death if I don't."  
  
He just stands there blinking for a few moments, dumbfounded. "Why did you keep up your father's vendetta against me?" he eventually asks.  
  
"My father's vendetta... you mean James Potter's?" I ask, tilting my head – one of Iolanthe's mannerisms, not Harry's, but I suppose it doesn't really matter. "I didn't do that on purpose. I was raised by Muggles, and they never told me anything about him – I didn't even know you'd met until _Quirrell_ told me!"  
  
That surprises him, but it's not enough to calm him down. "From the very first class you had with me, you played the fool, disrespectful and mediocre, when you have admitted you could do better! Why _else_ would you do that, if not because you were proud of what your father did to me?"  
  
"Well..." I close my eyes, thinking back to first year, trying to get my persona straight. I'm supposed to be mask off – I can't be Iolanthe Snape right now. But I can't truly be Harry Potter, either, not without angering him. "For days before the class, pretty much everyone told me that you couldn't stand Gryffindors. I hoped that wasn't true, because Potions sounded interesting, but then you decided to single me out – with no provocation at all on my part – for mockery, then a question about a _sixth-year potion_ , and then two more from the second-year curriculum. So I figured you weren't gonna treat me fairly no matter what I did, meaning that I had no reason not to live down to my reputation."  
  
Professor Snape pauses, thinking it over. Looking for holes, probably. Evidently, he doesn't find any. "Then what reason did you think I had to dislike you?" he asks.  
  
"I was the Boy who Lived," I say dryly. "So when someone I'd just met was nasty to me for no obvious reason, I made the natural assumption."  
  
He hums discontentedly. "So you just bombed the class after that? Weren't you thinking at all about your grades?"  
  
"Not really," I say. "The thing about Hogwarts is the year marks don't matter that much – only the OWLs and the NEWTs, and the professors don't run those. So I could have gone full Longbottom, melted a cauldron every class, and it _still_ wouldn't have mattered as long as I got an O on the OWL and the NEWT."  
  
"So you think you're up to an O standard when you're not deliberately sabotaging yourself?" Professor Snape says, sounding curious if skeptical.  
  
"I'm... not certain, sir," I say, my gaze flickering down to the floor. "I definitely think I have the book knowledge. I've been studying since we agreed I'd be staying with you, since I'm sure you won't accept anything but perfection from your own daughter. But obviously my classroom work hasn't helped my practical skills any." I smile. "I'd be happy to practice with you, sir – honestly, having the chance to study with someone so accomplished was one of the reasons I chose this in the first place."  
  
He looks halfway between conflicted and flabbergasted at that. "Don't disappoint me," he eventually settles on.  
  
"I won't, Father," I say with a nod and a confident grin. He really doesn't know how to react to that one.  
  
"So!" Tonks interjects. "Now that we've cleared the air, how do you think your scenes went?"  
  
"I think I handled it pretty well," I say. "I didn't notice any slips, and Father seems to think highly of my performance."  
  
"I do," he says, eyes seeking mine but not quite connecting. "Though I myself had a few slips... mostly when you surprised me. When I saw you reading a Dark Arts book was the main one. And I had expected your disguised self to be a boy, so I didn't realize who you were for a little while, hence my surprise when you gave your mother's name. But that was a fairly safe place to be surprised." He looks down at his hands. "If you don't mind my asking... why did you decide to be a girl?"  
  
"No special reason," I say. "It doesn't bother me – I like it a lot, actually – and Tonks says most people would be looking for a boy, so making me a girl instead makes my disguise more effective. Why? Do you have a problem with it?"  
  
He shakes his head. "No," he whispers, sounding conflicted again. "None at all. And it really is effective."  
  
Tonks asks a few more questions, routine exercise-debriefing ones, but neither of us have any particularly unexpected reactions.  
  
And, when we're done, Tonks comes up to me and smiles.  
  
"Well done, Io," she says, shaking my hand. "They're not gonna know what hit 'em."  
  
With that, she Apparates away. Father and I take the privacy wards down and put our masks on.  
  
I relax a little as Father starts to prepare ingredients, watching from the table without interrupting him – evidently he's vegetarian, which surprises me, but he cooks pasta with something called Potion fry that's like bacon but better. Like, it is _astonishingly_ good. Apparently there are advantages to having a master Potioneer for a father beyond the obvious.  
  
Then he takes me home – he Apparates me back to Liverpool, and I walk him to my flat. I eye him nervously, afraid he's going to scoff in disgust and leave forever now that he's seen what a terrible place I grew up in. But instead he just looks sad. He reaches out and pauses for a second, as if unsure what to do with his hand, before resting it gently on my shoulder.  
  
"I'm sorry I was never here for you, Iolanthe," he says.  
  
For a moment, I just stare at him, not sure what to say. How many times has an adult ever apologized to _me_? "It's not your fault," I finally say. "Ma never told you. And she always told me you were _dead_ , and I don't... I don't understand why..." I look back up to him with something hard and gleeful in my eyes. "But I have you now, don't I?"  
  
"Yes. You have me now." He smiles again, and it's a _bitter_ smile, but there's still a life to it I never, ever saw in my mother's. "I'll see you tomorrow, Iolanthe. Have a good night's sleep."  
  
"Good night, Father!" I say, a smile gripping my face as a wave of happiness and relief washes over me. "I'll see you tomorrow!"  
  
Then he steps back and Apparates away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my fantastic beta reader @GlassGirlCeci, who receives pasta with Potion fry. Yum!


	7. Dinner at the Manor

When my father Apparates into the center of the living room, everything I own that's worth keeping is piled up in the kitchen. There's depressingly little there, and most of it's crap – I've got Ma's old school trunk stuffed with my clothes, I've got my boombox with a dirty cardboard box of cassettes, I've got the huge old Wizarding Wireless set, and perched atop it a teetering pile of worn, dirty books on magic. For most, this would be rubbish, but it's mine. It's all I have.  
  
"You think you can get all this?" I ask quietly.  
  
He waves his wand at the pile. " _Incarcerous_ ," he says, and the whole motley bundle is wrapped up in thick black conjured cord. "That should hold it together well enough," he says. "But I'll Apparate you first." He offers his hand, and I take it, his grip firm and strong. I feel the still-unfamiliar spinning sensation of Side-Along Apparition – my mother had Apparated me a few times, but she didn't like it very much. We land in a room – and then I gasp, as I realize it's _my_ room.  
  
"Oh," I breathe as I look around, my eyes wide. It's painted a rich, deep green, with bright magical lamps affixed to the walls. The bed, desk, bookcase, and wardrobe are all magically made, rich dark wood with bronze fittings. And the window is magically enlarged – instead of the tiny, dark rectangular thing I had seen from the outside, it takes up most of the wall, framed by white curtains. I may have grown up in squalor, but this is the kind of place I deserve to live in. "This is wonderful!" I say, substituting gratitude for my satisfaction. "Thank you so much, Father!"  
  
"You're welcome," he says, in the tones of a man unused to thanks. "I expect you noticed that I haven't taken great care of the place," he admits. "I spend most of my time at Hogwarts, so this old house has never mattered much to me. It's been a hideout, a laboratory, and a summer retreat, nothing more. But I'm hardly poor, and I think... I think you deserve a nice place to call home." His eyes swivel down to the floor. "I'll go back for your things," he says, before Apparating out.  
  
I just sit on my soft bedsheets, smiling – I really hadn't expected this to go anywhere _near_ so well – for the few moments before he returns with my roped-up bundle of stuff, all of it looking remarkably shabby against the well-appointed bedroom. He undoes his spell and turns back to me.  
  
"You can unpack and get settled in, and I'll make dinner," Snape says. "I'll call you down when it's ready."  
  
"Thank you, Father," I say, as he shuffles out and walks back down the stairs. As he does, I take a moment to process without the mask.  
  
I doubt Professor Snape is spending all this money on me out of the goodness of his own heart. The Order and I are jointly paying for my care, money laundered through Dumbledore and Hogwarts, disguised as a pay raise. Some of it will be given to me as an allowance, but some of it is his to keep, and I assume that's what bought the furniture.  
  
Still, whatever his reasons, I can't help but appreciate that he's treating me so well.  
  
~~  
  
I'm reading one of Father's Dark Arts books on the bed when he calls me down for dinner, a delicious vegetarian recreation of Muggle fish and chips.  
  
"I'd like to see you practice your Potioneering this evening," he says as we finish up our last bites. "I am a Potions Master and the Hogwarts Professor, and I won't have my daughter brewing anything but the best. But, first, I'm curious what you think your ability level is."  
  
"So... I've read books – all the books Ma had, cover-to-cover, even the NEWT-level one – but I never really got to prepare a lot of potions myself. We could never afford many ingredients, and Ma sold her cauldron years ago."  
  
He looks disappointed to hear that, but contains it. "Just do as you've learned," he says. "Talk me through your process, and feel free to ask questions. If there's anything more that you need to learn, I will teach it to you."  
  
"Got it!" I say with a nod. "Do you want to start now, or—"  
  
"We can, if you think you're ready," he says. He stands up, and I follow him, but instead of opening the secret door and taking me to the basement, he walks me into the pantry, where a workbench sits up against the back wall, right under the window.  
  
"I thought your potions lab was downstairs?"  
  
"Oh, it is," Father says with a smile. "But I thought it prudent to have another, considering that not every potion I brew downstairs is entirely fit for Ministry attention."  
  
I snort. Stupid Ministry.  
  
"Should you prove adequate, this will be your practice laboratory. It should be more than sufficient for school potions."  
  
It is, I realize as I sit down at the table. It really is. I used to make my potions on a Muggle kitchen counter in a stainless steel cooking pot, but this... this is wonderful. A pewter cauldron, silver knife, preparation board, ingredient rack, and supplies, a place to set a proper fire, and a magical ventilator in the ceiling. There's a Potions book already there, a newer edition of the OWL-level textbook, propped open to the Summerbreeze Solution.  
  
"This is your potion," Father says. "Take as long as you need to prepare. Start when you're ready."  
  
I quickly read through the recipe, read it again, then turn back to him. "Okay, so there definitely need to be seasonal adjustments, since published potions recipes are calibrated to the spring equinox, but we just had the summer solstice a few weeks back." I glance off toward the wall, where a large brass instrument with six dials hangs – one I had only ever read about in books. It measures the ether, the miasma, and the position of the moon, the six conditions most important to Potioneering. And the Dark Arts. But they look fairly normal, and on a potion as simple as this, the effects wouldn't be very significant. "I think those are probably the only adjustments I really need, given today's conditions." I turn back to Father. "May I have some scratch parchment? I don't think I can do all this in my head."  
  
"Of course," says Father, looking quietly pleased with me. A twitch of his wand, and a roll of parchment and a quill soars into the room. It takes me a few minutes – I have to flip to the back of the book a few times to check tables or equations – but before too long I have the adjustments all written up. "Does this look good to you?"  
  
"Indeed it does," he says. "Now let me see you prepare your ingredients."  
  
"Of course."  
  
He'd already set up the racks with everything I need, so I go to work – carefully. I use the appropriate spell to bind my hair back into a tight bun, clean my workplace and my equipment, and only then do I finally start preparing my ingredients, separating each into its own dish, recleaning my workspace between them.  
  
"Well prepared," he says, as I fill my last ingredient dish. "You looked very experienced – I thought you said you didn't practice much?"  
  
"Oh, well, I did a lot of cooking with Ma, and I took to preparing ingredients to Potions standard, just so I'd get some practice in. It wasn't real Potioneering, but..."  
  
"I understand," he says. "I did much the same when I was your age. Do you think you're ready to brew?"  
  
"I do, Father."  
  
"Then proceed."  
  
I fill my cauldron with water and start brewing. And it's _hard_! I could be slow and methodical preparing the ingredients, but the actual brewing process is precisely timed, and with the seasonal adjustments, rather quick and demanding. There are a few times I worry I've missed a beat, and I know I actually mess up once or twice, but quick application of the standard recovery techniques keeps my potion within specifications all through its brewing time, and in the final step, I'm able to produce the turbulence, scintillation in its depths, and fine golden mist that indicate a successful brew.  
  
I bottle my solution and turn to my father. "So?" I ask. "How did I do?"  
  
He looks surprised, but satisfied. "Adequate," he says. "That would merit an O in my classroom. Given your lack of experience, I see you've either studied very hard, or you're quite the natural. You'll continue to practice over the summer, however, and I expect to see you improve in several areas..."  
  
Guarded relief pulses through me. He's satisfied. Good. Best make sure I keep it that way. He's done so much for me in scarcely more than a day – I _can't_ mess this up.  
  
Father and I have a long conversation about the various mistakes I made – timing is the big one, but there were a few subtler issues I hadn't noticed – and the techniques and spells I can use to avoid them in the future. I cover the whole back of my scratch parchment with notes, and he suggests several books to read as follow-ups, even a few papers. It's a lot to take in – most people might assume he was displeased with me. But though I only met him two days ago, I already know better. After all, he doesn't bother giving advice to the dunderheads.  
  
~~  
  
I'm sitting at the kitchen table, Runes book propped up on an upturned cereal bowl as I frown at a question.  
  
Father helped me apply to Hogwarts as a transfer student the other day, and I requested fifth-year Runes and Arithmancy. Of course I did – both subjects are super interesting, and the Hogwarts professors for them are supposed to be amazing. But my mum hadn't taken either course. She couldn't teach me anything. She did buy me textbooks, and I read them in my free time, but I know I haven't got the same practice in this as I have in my other courses.  
  
So Professor Babbling and Professor Vector both assigned me all their third and fourth year unit tests as summer homework. If I pass them all, I get to take the fifth-year courses. Otherwise, I get the fourth or third year courses. It's pretty daunting, getting a stack of two dozen rolls of parchment that all need to be done before the start of the year. I figure the idea might be to scare off lukewarm students, but I honestly think it's great. It's all open-book, so I can use the tests to review the material, making sure I know everything I need to before the school year starts.  
  
Hopefully getting them perfect will be enough to earn their favor. I've read about the things Hogwarts professors can do for their favorite students, so I _will_ be one of them.  
  
My focus stays fixed on the parchment even as I hear my father marching up the secret stairs from the Potions lab.  
  
"Iolanthe," he calls, coming up behind me. "What do you know about the Malfoy family?"  
  
With a sigh, I set down my quill and turn back to him. He looks very much the mad scientist – robes smelling of something caustic, hair pulled back into his Potions-lab bun, goggles pushed up his forehead. "Only what I read in the newspapers," I say, biting back the impulse to mess with him a little – I don't like being interrupted, but I'm still not confident I have a good enough handle on how he'd react. "Lucius Malfoy is a very wealthy man, a major donor to charitable causes, and a Death Eater who used the Imperius defense to avoid Azkaban. That's all."  
  
"I've arranged to dine with him and his family on Saturday evening," Father says as he sits down in the chair opposite me. "It's acceptable if your etiquette is not perfectly up to standard yet – I've told them about your unfortunate upbringing, so I'm sure they'll be willing to excuse lapses." I scowl at him. He knows perfectly well that poking at my pride like that will only make me work harder. "But as I fear your knowledge is not sufficient for you to avoid embarrassment, I will have to explain their family myself."  
  
I blink, surprised. I know my father is a Death Eater and a great wizard, but I didn't realize that he's so close to people like the Malfoys as to drop by for dinner. I've never met anyone like them before.  
  
"I will be quite candid about them," he says, voice perfectly level yet strangely charged. "Needless to say, you are not to repeat any of this to anyone, especially not them, or to write any of it down. Understood?"  
  
"Of course, Father," I say with a nod, straightening up in my chair.  
  
"Good." He nods curtly. "You'll be meeting Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco, but no explanation of their family can be complete without Abraxas Malfoy. The heir to the centuries-old Malfoy business empire, Abraxas was the Dark Lord's right hand, his most trusted lieutenant. As a Death Eater, a Dark Artist, a duelist, a strategist, and a politician, he was second only to his master. He was widely known as the Dark Lord's voice – in places the Dark Lord could not be present, like the halls of the Ministry or the parties of Pureblood Britain, Abraxas attended in his stead, his words backed in full by the Dark Lord. Indeed, their bond was so strong that some feared the Dark Lord may be possessing Abraxas outright, or even taking Polyjuice to pose as the man. Alas, he died in the last months of the war, in February of 1981, to an Auror's spell."  
  
There's something probing in his gaze, as if he expects me to flinch at the words 'Death Eater.' My awe and respect seems to surprise him.  
  
"Lucius Malfoy, Abraxas's son and my old friend, is an inner-circle Death Eater, renowned for his political manipulations and faculty at bribery and blackmail – some say he exceeds even his father. He is also a solid duelist, though somewhat behind the best of his generation – Gareth Nott, Bellatrix Lestrange, and myself. He is indeed a major lobbyist and donor, the owner of many prosperous Wizarding businesses, and an extraordinarily wealthy man."  
  
My eyes sparkle at his description of his dueling prowess – he hadn't even _mentioned_ that before! I'm suddenly struck with the urge to demand lessons from him, and by the slight quirk of his lips, he knows that perfectly well.  
  
"His wife Narcissa is a Black by birth, and thus raised into strictest Dark formalist tradition from infancy. She is a Dark Artist of the highest caliber, far more powerful than her husband, likely on par with her sister Bellatrix. However, she never formally joined the Death Eaters, and never had much interest in dueling. She is my closest friend – I visit her often to discuss the latest advances in Dark Arts or Potions. And while she publishes her research under a pseudonym, I happen to know that she's the lead author of some of the most-cited papers in modern Dark theory."  
  
He pauses, looking deep into my eyes for a moment.  
  
"I do hope you make a good impression on her," he says solemnly. "I intend to name her as your godmother."  
  
I quickly smother a gasp. She sounds like just the sort of person I want to know – I haven't met her yet, but still, this sounds incredibly promising. That Father is already willing to arrange an opportunity like that... "Of course," I say, barely managing to hold my voice level. "I appreciate it, Father. I'll do my best."  
  
"Thank you." He nods. "Draco Malfoy is their son and my godson, and he will be your yearmate in Slytherin. However..." He pauses, as if steeling himself to say it. "While he is a very good student, he is not exceptional as his parents and grandfather were. He lacks his father's astute political sense, and while he has some aptitude for the Dark Arts, he does not yet approach even his father, let alone his mother or his grandfather. And he persists in wasting his time with foolishness, like the house Quidditch team." Father scoffs. "Nevertheless, because of his family, his wealth, and his connection to the Dark Lord, Draco Malfoy is held in very high esteem within Slytherin House. He will also be one of the Prefects in your year."  
  
Father must have noticed the smirk I failed to hide, because he trains an intense glower on me.  
  
"I expect you to treat him as a friend," he says firmly. Then his stern expression breaks, just a little, with a quirk of his lips. "I also expect you to far surpass him academically, politically and in the Dark Arts, but don't be rude about it."  
  
"Of course, Father."  
  
"Given all this," he says, locking his fingers together, "how do you plan to present yourself to them?"  
  
"That's a good question," I say, stalling for time as my brain frantically reviews my information about them, along with all the books I've read that might have some bearing on the situation. "That they are close with you to such an extent as to name you the godfather of their son suggests a certain degree of pragmatism – that they value intelligence and power over blood purity." _Since we're not pureblood,_ I don't say. "In those arenas, I believe I can impress them. So I needn't put too much effort into squashing down my accent or brushing up my manners. Indeed, as long as it appears only in service of establishing my power or my worldview, it will come off more as folksy than as inferior, as a witch who has suffered life in a Muggle backwater and come out all the stronger for it."  
  
"Do you believe that your worldview will concord with theirs?" he asks, tilting his head.  
  
"Absolutely."  
  
He pauses, staring at me for a second, as if disbelieving that a girl less than a week out of a Muggle hellhole could possibly find common ground with a Death Eater. But then his expression settles as he remembers what I've been reading for pleasure – Wizarding history and culture are beginning to mix with my Dark Arts books – and he realizes that indeed I could.  
  
"So?"  
  
"... Acceptable," he says, and I grin.  
  
~~  
  
"Why aren't we just taking the Floo?" I ask as I take my father's hand, my glittering emerald robes gliding down my arm as I do. Merlin, these are nice. Mum never let me have _any_ robes, said Muggle clothes were just as good. She was so wrong.  
  
"You'll want a little time to ease into Malfoy Manor," he says. "It's a bit of an acquired taste."  
  
"What does _that_ —"  
  
Father cuts me off by Apparating me away. We land right outside a pair of ornate iron gates that open before us. I stare, open-mouthed, as we step inside.  
  
The path is made of mosaic tile, depicting famous scenes from wizarding history and folklore. Immense planters flank it, holding trees with brightly colored leaves or beautiful flowers or both. Everything that can be gilded, is. So are a lot of things that probably couldn't but for magic.  
  
I turn back to Father with a raised eyebrow.  
  
"About how many square inches of this place would it take to equal my ma's net worth?" I ask, raising an eyebrow as my gaze travels across it.  
  
"I might merit a few yards," he says, and I smile at him as our boots click rhythmically against the tile. "I take it you understand why we Apparated now?"  
  
I sigh, but I'm still smiling. "Yes, Father."  
  
"Good."  
  
At the end of the path, a house-elf shows us into a parlor where I meet Lucius Malfoy, a tall man with long, flowing blonde hair that looks as though he puts more time into it than I do mine. He wears long black formal robes patterned with silver thread that would be intimidating but for the way he greets Father.  
  
"Severus!" he says, wrapping my father in a big, uncomfortable-looking bear hug, and I blink. That is _not_ what I expected from Lucius Malfoy. And Father doesn't look pleased at all –I have to hold back a giggle. "I hear you've had quite the eventful summer!"  
  
"Lucius," Father says rather stiffly – I can see Mr. Malfoy smile at the tone, evidently he's well aware he's annoying my father. "It's good to see you again. I must admit, I wasn't expecting to be invited so soon—"  
  
"Nonsense!" Mr. Malfoy says fondly. He seems warm, if a little pushy. I suppose that makes sense for a lobbyist. "I could hardly leave you alone, not with news like this. A daughter! I admit my shock. I had come to believe you only had eyes for your work." He turns to me. "And you must be Iolanthe!" He pronounces it perfectly without being told, which has literally never happened before. I suppose it's a more common name in the wizarding world, but still, I'm impressed. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Yours is a sad story, very sad indeed... I'm glad your father was able to introduce you to the wizarding world at last."  
  
My eyebrow quirks upwards. That was a rather unsubtle attempt to feel me out – after all, a lot of people would consider my mother dying the sad part of that story. And even a week ago, I might have been offended – for all my ma and I didn't get along, she was still my mother, and my only connection to the wizarding world. But after seeing everything she took from me, after realizing I could have grown up with my _father_ and not in that Muggle dump... I can't help but agree with him. "As am I. It's an honor, Mr. Malfoy."  
  
A door swings open. "Good to see you, Severus," says a voice that manages to be warm despite the haughtiest accent I've ever heard.  
  
Narcissa Malfoy is a small, slender-looking woman of about my height – that is to say, _short_. She has the aristocratic facial features of a Black – at least, according to the pictures in the newspaper or the history books, she's the first I've ever seen in person – but not the hair. Hers is blonde and straight like her husband's, held in a tidy updo that looks suspiciously like a more fashionable equivalent of Father's Potions-lab bun. Father said he wanted her to be my godmother if I can impress her. _When_ I impress her. And she impresses me.  
  
She steps up to Father, standing just far enough away that he'd still be comfortable. "How are the toads doing?" she asks. "Your latest brew sounded promising."  
  
I smile – I've seen Father's toad tanks, of course. They take up a whole corner of his lab. I've also seen the bucket of dead toads when he tests out a bad potion.  
  
"They're all doing well, and they seem to have developed superlative hearing and vision, but I've yet to observe any changes beyond what a simple Perceptiveness Potion can manage," Father says. "I'm considering whether to start another test at a higher dosage, or try to reformulate."  
  
"Mmm. Good enough news, so early in development. Especially with none for the bucket." I appreciate how interested she is in Father's research – clearly, she really is quite the scholar. She hasn't even made eye contact with me yet, she's so distracted.  
  
"Indeed," Father says, with a nod of his head. "How goes the paper?"  
  
"I've found a way to make the leeching array work with _Kemoro_ – I replaced _Dyaal_ with a three-particle system, _Riza_ , _Argo_ , and _Tyran_." Her eyes start to wander as she talks about her own research – she smirks at her husband's clear boredom, but I'm genuinely interested, which seems to please her. Mrs. Malfoy turns to me with a smile. "I'm working on a shield that can reflect Ausirian curses. It's never been done before, and I'm still not entirely certain I can manage it, but I've already made three new discoveries and I'm feeling quite confident. Though... I don't believe we've been introduced?"  
  
"This is Iolanthe, my daughter," Father says. "Iolanthe, Mrs. Malfoy, my friend, former classmate, and occasional research partner."  
  
"It's a pleasure," she says, smiling warmly at me. "So, how much of that did you understand?"  
  
"Only the broadest outline," I say ruefully. I know Father would catch a lie like that, so I don't want to try it with her – hopefully, my lack of knowledge won't put her off, especially if I make it clear I _want_ to learn. "My mother wasn't exactly keen on the Dark Arts, so I have a lot to catch up on."  
  
"You have the right father for that," she says encouragingly. "I'm sure you'll have finished his library in no time."  
  
"Please do not encourage her," Father grouses. "I have caught her awake reading at three in the morning. I'm not convinced she sleeps at all."  
  
"Oh, indeed?" Mrs. Malfoy says, her eyebrow ticking up as she smiles. It takes some effort not to smile myself – thanks for the help, Father. "That certainly doesn't sound like anyone I know."  
  
Father sighs and presses two fingers to his forehead as I start to laugh. Genuinely. She's as snarky as my father."You are not helping," he chides lightly.  
  
"Do I ever?" Mrs. Malfoy asks. "Anyway, it's a lovely day out, so I'd like to eat on the patio. You don't mind, do you?"  
  
"Of course not," Father says with a smile, and Mr. Malfoy nods his agreement. She leads us through the mansion – it really is beautiful here, it couldn't _possibly_ be further from the Muggle squalor of my childhood – and out into an amazing garden, with plants of stunningly bright and vivid colors.  
  
"So what sort of things do you research, Mrs. Malfoy?" I ask as we walk. Not the subtlest approach, as far as connection-building goes, but I do want to know, and it'd be silly to veil my interest just so I don't seem too obvious. "Aside from your shielding spell. Are there any papers I can read, or...?"  
  
"I've published extensively in the Dark and Akanuentic journals under the name Rosalind Lebec," she says, and her face glows with pride. Good choice, I decide. "Your father has copies of all my articles, and I'm sure he can point you toward some of the more accessible ones. Perhaps 'Dark Detainments'?"  
  
Father nods. "I'll show it to you when we get home."  
  
We emerge from the garden into a small patio tiled in polished, sparkling stones in purple and blue, with a glass dining table and comfortable-looking padded chairs that had to be spelled against the weather. It looks out over a long, grassy hill, the forest at its foot small in the distance.  
  
Then my gaze turns upward, to focus on a boy my age, slim and athletic, dangling by a foot and a hand from an expensive racing broom.  
  
I'm not much for sports, and I've only ever seen brooms through the windows of shops in Diagon Alley. Quidditch holds less than no interest for me – but, still, I'm impressed. He seems pretty good on that thing, frivolous though it may be.  
  
His mother, however, is less impressed. "Draco!" she calls, and the boy in question nearly lets go of the broom before managing to catch himself and scramble back up. "Draco, Severus and his daughter are here! You should have been inside and dressed thirty minutes ago!"  
  
"Lost track of time," he says, looking somewhat ashamed of himself, though his father can't help but smile. "I'll be down in a sec!" He turns his broom toward the house and shoots off.  
  
"Use the _door_ , don't just fly through the wind— _ugh_." Mrs. Malfoy shakes her head. "Some days I wonder how that boy escaped Gryffindor."  
  
"It is inspiring that the real Gryffindors are able to meet even such fierce competition," Father says. "But perhaps with Potter gone, your son will triumph at last."  
  
"Oh?" I ask. Seems like a good opportunity to score some points. I know how they feel about Harry Potter. "I don't get to meet the _boy wonder_?"  
  
Father struggles to contain his humor, but Mrs. Malfoy doesn't bother – her high laughter is remarkably pleasant. "No," she says. "It hasn't made the papers yet, but the rumor's been going around for a week now. He's been withdrawn from Hogwarts. For his safety, supposedly. Probably for the best – you wouldn't have gotten along with him."  
  
"I'm quite sure I wouldn't," I say with a smirk, and Father has to restrain himself again.  
  
"Did you hear anything about it, Severus?" she asks. "You were one of the boy's teachers, after all..."  
  
"I know little more than you," Father says. "None of his professors were asked to prepare correspondence courses – apparently Albus is to arrange private schooling for him." He scoffs. "No amount of tutoring can make a passable student of the boy."  
  
"Draco will _surely_ be the best Seeker at Hogwarts with him gone," Mr. Malfoy says with no small amount of pride, though it deflates a little when Father and Mrs. Malfoy both turn toward him, each raising a single eyebrow in perfect synchrony.  
  
I take a moment to collect my thoughts, as Lucius grins shamelessly. I think I'm starting to get a picture of the Malfoy family now – who they are, how they think and act.  
  
Lucius is a consummate politician, forceful and manipulative – the moment we walked in the door, he put my father off-balance and then tested me. I suspect he can't help it – some people are always challenging, always probing for weakness. I can be the same way. And yet he turns none of it on his son, who he clearly loves and dotes on, even though he'd normally walk all over someone like that.  
  
Narcissa values knowledge, much like Father and I, and with no other job, she's been able to devote herself to research in a way I envy. She loves her son, but he doesn't live up to her high expectations, and unlike Lucius, she's willing to be vocal about it. She knows Draco won't follow in her footsteps, and given the way she reacted to my interest, I think she's looking for a new successor. Father was right – she would be a perfect godmother for me.  
  
And Draco stands out as the only unguarded person here – the only one not controlled, disciplined, and calculating. Despite his quirky parents, he seems like a fairly normal boy, obsessed with Quidditch, unruly and free-spirited.  
  
My father's voice pulls me out of my reverie – apparently he's given up on the staring match with Lucius. "Potter may find Quidditch a valuable use of time, but—" He cuts off as Draco emerges from the garden with fine robes but ruffled hair.  
  
"Will you stop talking about Potter?" he asks. Given how fast he was, I can't help but suspect he flew back down again. Judging by his mother's expression, she's had the same thought. Then he catches sight of me, and just stares for a second. Apparently he likes my robes. I stifle my smirk. "I, uh... I don't think we've met."  
  
"Iolanthe Snape," I say, delicately offering a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My amazing beta reader @GlassGirlCeci receives a pot of Technicolor flowers. Happy gardening!
> 
> Sorry about the week of schedule slip. I didn't mean for that to happen – I'm currently in the middle of a nice long vacation, which always tend to mess with my routines, and on this vacation in particular I dove headfirst into another project. But I seem to be escaping from it again, so hopefully I won't have any more schedule slippage. I'm certainly eager to get next chapter out – it contains one of the first scenes I wrote, and one of my anchor scenes for the story. I'm really looking forward to it. :)
> 
> Since I've gotten a lot of comments on the pronunciation of Iolanthe's name, I figure I should address it in an actual set of chapter end notes instead of just a comment: it's ee-oh-lan-thee, sometimes shortened to just yo-lan-thee. She's sometimes called by the nickname Io, which is just ee-oh.


End file.
